Things Unsaid
by foureyedfool
Summary: When Sherlock finally does something unforgivable, John leaves London. A month later, he gets a call from Lestrade that Sherlock isn't eating, won't leave his flat, and is back on drugs. Sherlock refuses to get clean, but will John's return be enough to help him? What feelings will they develop for each other along the way? Slow Johnlock. Triggers: drug-use, language, angst, sex.
1. Chapter 1

Hello! Thanks for reading this! First off, I do not own Sherlock Holmes/John Watson/etc. Secondly, this is a roleplay-turned story between myself and the lovely user backarapper. I wrote the part of John, and she (excellently) wrote Sherlock. This story starts off rather angsty and contains lots of drug-use and cursing, and will at a later time contain very steamy scenes. You've been warned! Please enjoy. 

John had one thing on his mind as he sat in the back of the cab, on his way home to Baker Street. One thing that was consuming his mind, pushing out all other thoughts. His hands were resting on his knees, clenched so tightly into fists that his entire forearms were shaking. He was going to kill Sherlock Holmes. He didn't know how - and really, the how didn't matter; it was the end result that he was focusing on. Sherlock had single-handedly ruined his life. Kelly Brandt, first woman he had met who was willing to put up with his relationship with Sherlock, his coming and going on dates to help Sherlock with a case, Sherlock's abrasive personality...well, Sherlock in general...had ended their engagement. And her reasoning? "Sherlock said you wouldn't be happy with me." "Sherlock told me that I wouldn't be able to satisfy you." "Sherlock said I couldn't give you what you want or need." Sherlock said, Sherlock said, Sherlock said.

The cab finally arrived at the flat, and John flung the door open and slid out, slamming it shut without bothering to pay the driver. He dashed upstairs and threw the door to their flat open so hard that it rammed against the wall, the knob crashing through the thin drywall layer. He saw Sherlock sitting in his chair, reading the morning's post like any other day. John stood there, arms still trembling with rage, and managed to spit out the words, "You _fucking _bastard.

When John came into the flat, charged with the sharp electrical energy of his anger, Sherlock simply looked at him with a slated expression. completely stolid as his blinked in a nearly owlish manner and sighed. "Yes, yes, you've established such before," he said as though this were routine, turning his head to look back casually at the casefile he was going through, unaware of the storm that he had unintentionally unleashed. He lifted a page up to glance at the police report of the cold case, humming slightly to himself. "Despite that, however, I'm not going to pay for the repair of the damage you've caused. Now if you would be so kind, I'd like some tea." Sherlock's demeanor was nearly derisive of John's anger, as though it mattered very little to him and while on a case, truly it did.

John stormed over to where Sherlock was sitting and tore the paper out of his slender hands. He couldn't have cared less if he ruined the wall, the door, the information Sherlock was looking at, he simply didn't care. He wanted to punch Sherlock as he was, but he _was _a compassionate man and, as such, would never hit someone as they were sitting. That could be easily remedied. John grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's t-shirt (the man wasn't even dressed; despite it being nearly eight in the evening, he was wearing a tee, pajama pants, and his bathrobe) and yanked on it, pulling the man to his feet. Before Sherlock could react, John's free hand had pulled backwards before pushing forward and coming directly into contact with his nose.

"Kelly _left_ me!" He was screaming the words, not caring if the neighbors or Mrs. Hudson heard him. "She left me because of what _you _said to her!" Another punch went to Sherlock's face, this time hitting his cheekbone, those ridiculously high cheekbones. He let go of the man's shirt then and pushed him. Sherlock was fortunate that he landed back in his own chair. John had to begin pacing the room back and forth, knowing that if he didn't do _something_ he would punch his flatmate for a third time.

Pages ripped from his fingertips, Sherlock rolled his eyes, expecting another lecture on whatever it was that John was upset about that he would probably sit through for a good ten to twenty minutes. What he didn't anticipate, however, was the way that John's fist knotted firmly in his shirt and yanked him up, Sherlock staring down at the hand for a moment in confusion.

When he looked up to ask John what was going on, the harsh, dazing blow of John's fist against his face sent him reeling. His head spun and he heard John speak a bit, though it was somewhat fuzzy as his head spun. John punched him? Sherlock managed, somehow, to regain some focus but as soon as he did, John's clenched hand slammed down against his sharp cheek, the bone taking most of the contact and stinging in the most horrendous manner. When he was released, Sherlock stumbled back in confusion, dizzy as he dropped to the floor and delicately touched his fingertips to his nose. "Wh.. what are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, the words John spoke finally resounding in his head, and finally clicking a moment later. John knew. "Oh.." he mumbled to himself.

"That's right, Sherlock! OH!" John's voice took on a nearly maniacal tone but lessened none in volume. "Oh is right! As in, oh, look, I've just ruined John's life! Oh, I hope John doesn't mind that I tell his fiancee he doesn't want to be with her! Oh, I'll just put her under the impression that he's a latent homosexual!" He walked over to the wall by the fireplace and slammed his fist into it. He had to do something destructive. Destroy something, hit something.

Consciously reminding himself that it was _Sherlock_ he was mad at, not Mrs. Hudson's building, he grabbed the first thing his eyes settled on-Sherlock's scarf, which was draped over the back of his chair. His chair. That in itself fueled his anger. Sherlock couldn't even be bothered to put the damn scarf over his _own_ chair? Sherlock couldn't make his own tea? Sherlock, in all his brilliance, couldn't immediately come to the conclusion of _why _John was so bloody furious? He stormed to his chair and lifted the scarf, grabbing it in both his hands and tugging on it until the fabric began to tear. "See that?" he asked, not bothering to glance to see if Sherlock was looking or not. "See how it's destroyed? That is the _perfect_ analogy to my life, and it's all thanks to _you_."

Slowly, achingly, Sherlock rose up to his feet, wiping blood that had begun to leak from his nose, shuddering a sigh as he did so. John had _hurt_ him. Intentionally hurt him. And when he looked up, seeing the scarf clutched tightly between John's hands, he raised one of his own somewhat in protest. It was difficult to believe, but that scarf did hold some value to Sherlock, and he watched as the seams popped, the fabric fraying as John tore it into two. For a long moment, Sherlock said nothing, letting the idea that it was an analogy wander about his throbbing head for a moment before turning and heading into the kitchen.

"I suppose it is quite the good analogy," he agreed in a low growl, slight sparks of anger in his voice. "To the point of being the one to tear it apart." He quickly grabbed himself a glass of water, finding a pill bottle and popping out three-no, four paracetamol pills and downing them rapidly. With a hiss, he touched to his face, knowing there'd be quite the bruising following those blows. "If you're quite finished with your fit, I'd like some tea now."

Asking for tea. John had just punched him, tore up his scarf, and put a hole in the wall, and the bloody bastard was asking him for tea. "Sod this," he muttered under his breath. He was done. Three years he had put up with Sherlock's abuse, his violin, his messes, his body parts in random places throughout the flat, expecting John to be his servant. No more. He was /done/.

John threw the scarf onto the ground and left the room, taking the steps two at a time until he arrived in his bedroom. He pulled his suitcase out of his closet and threw things in, two pairs of trousers, a few shirts, pants, socks, his other pair of shoes, his gun. He had a picture of himself and Kelly on his nightstand, and he lifted it up and threw it against the wall, shattering the frame and scratching the wallpaper. After zipping his suitcase, he rushed downstairs, opening it again after dropping it onto the couch. He put his laptop inside, his phone and computer charger. That was it, wasn't it? He didn't need anything else. Gun, computer, phone, clothes. "I'm leaving," he said after storming to the kitchen entryway. "I'm leaving, and I am not coming back." Why was he telling Sherlock? Why hadn't he just _left_? Perhaps part of him was hoping that Sherlock would apologize to him and clear things up with Kelly, but he knew that wouldn't happen.

Sherlock decided to take the initiative when John stormed upstairs, taking down the kettle and getting it filled and plugged in, as well as getting the necessary components for a cup of tea. When John came back downstairs, his shoes sounding louder than the voice of an angry god, he didn't bother to look, simply rolling his eyes to himself as though this were a big show. As though John was simply throwing a fit he'd be over in a few minutes. And when John packed away his laptop, Sherlock did feel somewhat nervous, having turned to watch for a moment, but he faced away when John's charged towards him with this explanation, Sherlock's face gelid and void of vim. "Of course you'll come back," he said with a bit of a haughty snort as he turned to look at John, hand going up to dab away the blood that still leaked from his nose. "You always do."

John held up his hand, which was still shaking with rage. "No, correction - I always _did. _And look where it got me?" He let out a snort that rivaled Sherlock's, one that wordlessly said 'what have I done with the past three years of my life?' "You enjoy your miserable, lonely life Sherlock Holmes. I'm not going to be a part of it, not anymore." He turned away and went to the other side of the room, lifting his suitcase of the couch and left the room. He didn't care if it was the last time he saw Baker Street. He didn't care if it was the last time he saw 221B. He _certainly _didn't care if it was the last time he saw, or even heard the name of, Sherlock Holmes.

He hailed the first taxi he saw and ordered it to take him to Palmer's Lodge, the cheapest hotel he knew of. When he arrived, he checked into a single room, dropping his luggage onto the bed as he cursed loudly. He locked both locks and, just for his own peace of mind, propped the chair underneath the doorknob in case of the low chance that Sherlock tried to follow him, to talk to him. He sat on the bed and turned on the telly, trying to take deep breaths, to calm himself. He would have to start looking for jobs once he cooled off. He wanted away from London, away from anything that would remind him of Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Soooo this chapter is about three times the length of the other one. It switches between Sherlock and John's lives pretty quickly so be on the lookout for that. Again, this is a co-written story and neither author owns Sherlock/Sherlock Holmes so we take no credit for that. Please enjoy, R&R if you feel so inclined! **

It had been a few days since Sherlock had seen hide nor hair of John, not knowing the last time John had lasted this long in such an argument, not willing to come home. But he would. Soon. Mycroft, however, seemed to have thought differently. The two were sitting in a cafe together, Mycroft struggling to convince his brother to suck it up and apologize to the doctor he'd hurt so badly, but Sherlock was having none of it. He just stared out the window, sighing every two minutes and not drinking the coffee that Mycroft had bought for him. "He's been accepted to a job in the Isle of Man, Sherlock," Mycroft murmured in his serious tone that still managed to hold hints of indifference. He slowly twirled his cane handle as he watched Sherlock for a reaction, and saw none. Instead, the man stood up and wrapped his scarf around his neck. "That's his business," he muttered, somewhat bitterly as he walked out the door, immediately fishing in his back pocket for the pack of cigarettes he'd opened, pulling one out and sticking it between his teeth. As he light it, his eyes spotted the familiar blonde mop of John, heading towards the cafe, and immediately, Sherlock began to look him over with tired eyes.

The day had finally come when John was going to fly to his new job, his new home, his new life. He had quickly been offered a position at Noble's Hospital on Isle of Man. It would be quite a change from London. IM was small, for one, and not very densely populated. The sea air would do him some good. He hadn't been sleeping; instead, he spent every night replaying his life up to the point he and Sherlock had gotten in that God-awful fight. Although John regretted nothing he had done in his life up to this point, he knew it was time for a change. Sherlock had been exactly what he needed three years ago, but he certainly wasn't what he needed now. Right now, all John wanted to do was get a steady job, settle down, and go on with life.

He had woken up a bit early to go to his favorite cafe and get coffee and a bagel. He dragged his suitcase behind him as he walked, until he was in view of the restaurant. He paused when he saw a man come out, wearing a long wool jacket with a mop of unruly black hair...really? Of all places. He saw Sherlock light a cigarette and put it in his mouth. Great, he was back on the cigarettes. A disgusting habit if there ever was one. Sherlock turned his head and their eyes automatically locked onto each others. Standing completely still for a moment, John thought about his options. Talk to Sherlock. Turn around and go back the opposite way. Go to the cafe regardless of the man's presence. That sounded like a good idea. After all, it would show Sherlock that he wasn't timid, wasn't afraid of another encounter, and would also give him the opportunity to show how angry he still was if the detective tried to speak with him. As John got closer, though, he could see the distinctive figure of Mycroft Holmes through one of the windows. Sod that, he thought to himself. His grip on his luggage tightened and he turned around, going back in the direction he had come from, leaving Sherlock with his cigarette.

Watching intently, Sherlock saw numerous behaviors in John's demeanor he wasn't used to. The determination to stay away from Sherlock being the most dominant. Eyeing the man carefully, he saw the way his face gave a minuscule twist of disgust at the cigarette placed between Sherlock's cupid-bow lips, saw the exhaustion rimming dark circles around his eyes, saw the idea of having his breakfast at the cafe dissipate when his ocean eyes locked on Sherlock's brother. The man turned around and walked away, the suitcase he had in his hand swinging slightly as he did and Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat. Maybe the man had been coming home? But.. No. That look of determination on John's face said far too much: Mycroft was right. John was leaving. And Sherlock, stubborn man that he is, simply turned with a flourish of his dark coat, turning up the collar as he blew a cloud of smoke into the atmosphere and walked home. But he wanted to bring John back, and he knew exactly how to do it.

**One Month Later**

John didn't watch the news anymore. He didn't read the newspapers. He didn't look at his blog. In fact, he didn't do anything that he thought might remind him of Sherlock Holmes, nor had he done for the past thirty days. Upon arrival at IM, John had interviewed with the hospital administration and they had offered him the job on the spot. They fell in love with him, his character, his C.V., his medical and army background. They said he was exactly what they had been looking for, and he told them he felt the same. He got himself an apartment near the sea. His nights were spent on the deck reading and drinking wine. Lots of wine. More than he had ever drunk at Baker Street, anyway. He wasn't sure why, but he had found himself craving alcohol and the heady feeling it gave him more and more since he moved. At first he had joked with himself that it was the sea air. Now he realized that it was boredom.

Was he happy? Well...yes. In most ways. His life was lacking danger and excitement, and he would readily admit that he /did/ miss that. He missed chasing criminals and having his gun at the ready, fighting hand-to-hand, risking his life. He tried to fill the void by becoming a volunteer at the police department, but that, of course, limited him to answering phones and doing menial tasks. He certainly couldn't go and see where a woman had committed suicide, and he was never called on to help in matters of national importance. A small price to pay, he told himself, for having his own life.

Sherlock had been too dependent on him. He wasn't able to have his own life, wasn't able to even breathe without Sherlock knowing about it. At first that had been ideal. It had been so long since he'd had a friend that he was willing to take the obsessiveness that Sherlock offered, but Sherlock also offered something else-neglect. He had never been in a relationship, platonic, romantic, or other-where the other person was both obsessed with and neglected him, but Sherlock Holmes managed to pull it off.

He had made friends already at the surgery. Two male doctors he worked with, Jeff and Mark, and also a female nurse named Mary Morstan. She was young, beautiful, intelligent, kind...single. Interested. Inter-work relationships were, of course, as taboo in the medical field as in any other, but Mary had just left the hospital a week ago to pursue her dreams of higher education. John had asked her out at her goodbye party, and she had eagerly said yes. Needless to say, it evolved into one of the most memorable nights of his life. She was going to class on the Isle, still, so they would have no trouble continuing their relationship.

He would be lying if he said that he never thought about Sherlock Holmes. He did, from time to time. Not reading the post or watching the news hadn't helped him erase what he already knew. That being said, he was moving on with his life, and the prospect of settling down with Mary and starting a family of his own was slowly beginning to fill the void of boredom that Sherlock had done before.

Sherlock stopped counting how long it had been since John was at home, at first merely waiting, later delving into methods that would, hopefully, bring him home soon. Soon enough, however, he had forgotten what he had initially planned with the drugs, and everything had begun to spiral out of control. There was some lacuna in his mind, something missing and no matter how much cocaine he did to focus, no matter how much he tried to convince himself that he didn't need John, Sherlock couldn't figure out that the unfilled gap was the man he often so carelessly ignored. But that didn't matter now, none of that mattered now. All that mattered was the numb cool he felt when he licked white powder off his fingertips or the tightness in his chest as he pushed a needle, often awkwardly, into his right arm as the veins in his left had collapsed long ago. He forgot about the casework, his mind palace all but condemned as he focused only on his high, and keeping it even, a careful balance of heroin and cocaine. Sherlock would wake up sick, breakfast being a seven percent cocaine solution he'd inject into himself as a means to properly wake up and, in many ways, live.

Truly, it was a shock that it had only been a month since John had left, seeming to be sincere in his promise to never come back. Sherlock had thrown fits, shot the walls and broken whatever he could. There was trash everywhere, the sitting room an absolute disaster, coffee table littered with used tea mugs and syringes. He hadn't spoken to his brother, to Lestrade, or even Ms. Hudson when the woman brought her food. Solving murders mattered little anymore. John was gone, and Sherlock's dependance on the man evaporated with him.

These thoughts whizzed through Sherlock's mind but didn't linger as he crouched in the hallway by the door, leaning against the wall as he stared at the hole bored through the opposite side when John shoved open the door on the day he wasn't to return. The edges were frayed and imperfect, and yet the whole thing was incredibly circular, and Sherlock couldn't stop staring because it was one of the last impressions John left. With a sigh, he stubbed out his cigarette on the floor and chucked the butt through the hole, fishing out a plastic bag of white powder from his pocket. Sherlock made quick work of snorting some, sucking his fingertip as he repocketed the bag, then shaking out his mop of greasy black hair, unwashed. He was entirely unkempt. And so when Mrs. Hudson walked in with some food, the door stopping as it hit Sherlock's thigh, she noticed the white dusting beneath the man's nose and the overall look of being entirely uncared for, and it became too much for her to do nothing about.

A phone call to Lestrade led to the DI making a stop to see Sherlock, to try to take care of him, but Sherlock simply wouldn't have it. Lestrade had gone so far as to arrest him, if only for a few days with the hopes of Sherlock coming to his senses, but that only led to the man nearly overdosing upon his return. Greg knew better than to arrest Sherlock on drug charges; Mycroft wouldn't have it, but he was running out of options and Sherlock's dependance was increasing at a frightening rate. So, desperate, Lestrade called John and hoped the doctor would answer.

It was an incredibly busy day at the surgery. The flu had arrived in full-force and John saw case after case of dehydration from vomiting and diarrhea, fevers that exceeded the safe range, people with excruciating pain in their lower abdomen. One of these turned out to be appendicitis and he and his surgical team had scrubbed up in moments and got the damned thing out of the poor girl. He had arrived to the hospital at eight thirty that morning; now it was nearly seven in the evening and he was finally leaving. He didn't mind the long hours that, from time to time, came with being a doctor.

Truthfully, anything that mixed up his routine was a relief. He and Mary had made dinner plans for eight, so he was just thankful that he had finished up in time. As soon as he pulled his mobile out to text her and tell her that he could still make it, it buzzed, signalling that he was receiving a call. He read the name number on the screen-he recognized it. Greg Lestrade. He had deleted Lestrade's number, Mycroft's, Molly's, Mrs. Hudson's, and obviously Sherlock's when he first arrived to the island, but he still was able to recognize them. His mind went in a million different directions at once. Why would Lestrade possibly be calling? Something to do with Moriarty? Something to do with Sherlock? A casual 'how have you been, we miss you' type thing? Doubtful. If that had've been the case, it probably would have occurred two weeks ago. He considered not answering it. He really, truly did. He told himself, okay, if it's about Sherlock, I'll let him know I don't give a damn. Sherlock can take care of himself; he made that point /perfectly/ clear. He pressed 'accept' and lifted the phone to his ear, clearing his voice in an attempt to sound composed. "Greg. How are you?"

When John answered the phone and a voice that Greg hadn't heard in a month sounded through the speaker, for a moment he didn't say anything, having forgotten entirely why he had called initially. He debated hanging up the phone, running off like a teenage girl finally having built up the courage to call her crush. But after a moment he shook his head out of it and heaved a sigh. "Hey, John," he greeted in return, tempted to say that he wasn't great. That the divorce had finalized. That he was overwhelmed with work. With Sherlock. "I'm good, I suppose. Same old. How have you been?" He knew that it was pointless to force this conversation. He could tell John was reluctant to talk to him, so he took a deep breath and ran a hand through his silvery hair. "Look, sorry, but we have a bit of an emergency situation on our hands," Lestrade said simply, frowning deeply to himself.

John released a long sigh, not bothering to hold it, as he raised his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Nearly twelve hours of work and now an emergency situation. Fantastic. "I've been fine, thanks for asking," he said, although his tone of voice made it clear that he was only saying the words to put off discussing the 'situation', whatever it could possibly be. "Gotta be honest, Greg. I'm not sure why you're calling me. In case you've forgotten, I live nearly ten hours away now. By boat, anyway. I suppose taking a plane would cut down the travel time a bit." He was rambling now, saying anything to avoid hearing the reason Lestrade called. It wasn't a social call, which meant whatever it was was going to be something he didn't want to hear, something he didn't want to get involved in. He had a new life on the island and intended to continue it.

"Yeah, well.." Greg paused. Maybe calling John was a bad idea, maybe he was just disrupting the life the man was intent on building for himself. "To be honest, mate, I really don't know who else to turn to... Sherlock's back on cocaine. And he's thrown in heroin too," Lestrade said as he tilted his head back to look up at the ceiling, phone pressed snuggly to his ear as he waited for a moment to see if the man decided to just hang up. He wouldn't blame him. "I tried to put him away for a bit, but Mycroft pays off any charges I'd put on him and locking him up for a few days only made him nearly overdose when he got out. John, Ms. Hudson's scared of him now. He's not himself. He hasn't taken a single case since you left."

Ah. There it was, the reason for calling. Sherlock. Always about Sherlock, never about John. Granted, John had been the same way; putting Sherlock's needs before his own, going on cases with him when he had dates, giving him his own cup of tea when Sherlock suddenly got a craving for it. Cocaine and heroin, two very powerful, very debilitating drugs. His mind immediately conjured up images of Sherlock in the flat with a needle slipped into his arm and a white mustache from where the powder had sifted onto his upper lip. He had so many things he wanted to say, so many cruel things (after all, even though a month had gone by, he was still furious at the man), but he settled on a single question. "And why are you telling /me/ this?"

At that, Greg bit his lip, knowing by that statement it was truly pointless to try and convince John to come and help the man; that would have to be something he decides on his own. He has to think it was his own idea. "I.. We can't get him into rehab John. And he won't let anyone into the flat. You knew him better than anyone else." Lestrade hesitated again, taking and releasing a deep breath as he closed his eyes. "Do you have any ideas? Anything at all. I mean, we've run out. There's nothing we can do and if he keeps this up.. He's going to kill himself. Please, John, I get that you're mad at him, sure. Really. But that's nothing to let him die over. Please, give me an idea." Greg's voice wasn't hiding the begging tone in there, the man truly feeling completely desperate by this point. "You're my last resort."

"I have one," John said, his voice turning rather bitter. "Mycroft can have his goons break into the damn flat, drag him out, shove in a car, and drop his arse off at rehab. Nothing I say or do is going to change anything. I'm sorry, but I've got a dinner date. I have to go." With that, John ended the call. He was angry. Angry that Lestrade would call him, angry that Lestrade expected him to do something, angry that Lestrade expected him to /care/. Where was Sherlock when John needed him to care? Playing the bloody violin. Where was Sherlock when John had needed something done? In his mind palace. John had just enough time to go back to his flat and change into a pair of dark jeans and a white jumper before meeting Mary at the restaurant. She instantly picked up on his aggravated mood. John assured her that it was in no way her fault, but wouldn't tell her any more, just that he'd had a frustrating and long day. It wasn't a lie, he could at least be proud of that. He didn't like lying.

**One Week Later  
**

John was stubborn as always, Lestrade could see when the man hung up. It was incredibly frustrating; John cared so much for Sherlock, Greg knew that. But.. Greg slammed his phone down on his desk and grabbed his coat, leaving the Yard for the day. There was no way he was going to be able to concentrate, not when he was actually worried about Sherlock himself. On his way home, he thought about how hard both he and Mycroft had fought to put Sherlock into a rehab center, both times in which the detective escaped, returning home to use again. The two of them knew it was pointless to try without implementing something fairly illegal. And even then, they were certain the clever man would manage to get out again. Lestrade, however, figured that it was pointless to talk to John. The man wasn't going to budge. So he didn't call again, left John to the life he'd built for himself.

Until, however, some six days later when Sherlock had managed to outdo himself. It was unfortunate that Mrs. Hudson was the one to find the man slumped over that way, barely breathing, his pulse dangerously low, lips bluish and his body nearly comatose with a needle still plugged into his right vein. He called the DI and, as soon as possible, Lestrade had an emergency vehicle take the man to the nearest hospital, worried that Sherlock might not come out of this. Once at the hospital, waiting for news about Sherlock, Lestrade made a call to John, hoping the doctor picked up. He stopped himself and hung up. John didn't care, right? Maybe.. This was important enough. He called again, hoping he wasn't sent to voicemail.

Nearly a week later and John and Mary had taken the next step in their relationship. They were lying in bed together, naked, about to make love. John was on top of her, his hands on her slender waist, lips pressed to hers. God, she was beautiful. Young and intelligent, kind and caring, everything he wanted in a woman. Her breasts were pressing against his chest and he felt himself getting aroused immediately.

Then his phone rang.

They sighed simultaneously. "I'm so sorry," John said, kissing her once more before sliding off her body and rushing over to the desk where his phone was resting upon. He knew she understood; after all, doctors got called at all hours of the day and night. It wasn't the hospital. It was Lestrade. Twice in a week-that was more than Greg had ever called him before. As always, he began thinking about Sherlock, about what the man was doing to himself. The past week he'd had plenty of time to imagine Sherlock in the flat close to death from overdose. He was furious at the man, and could safely say, even, that he hated him...but he didn't want him to die. John wished that on nobody, nobody except James Moriarty. Sherlock was an ass, but he wasn't /evil/, and he didn't deserve death. He sat down by Mary, left hand holding the phone up to his ear. "I'm sorry," he said again, pressing accept. "What is it, Greg? It's really not a good time."

When John picked up, his voice rife with irritation, something small snapped in Lestrade's mind. Something angry, truly angry. He clenched his teeth and his fist as he looked at the door that Sherlock had been rushed through, still no news regarding his condition. After a moment, he forced his jaw to unclench and he released a shaky breath, trying to steady himself. "He overdosed," he stated simply, anger obvious in his tone as well as an amalgamation of confused emotions. "He /overdosed/. It's not looking good. I know you don't really care either way, though. So, probably a mistake to call." He paused, biting his tongue for a brief moment as he collected himself again. "I'll let you know if he dies," he growled out bitterly before snapping his phone shut and shoving it in his pocket.

Mary had wrapped her arm around John, leaning her head against his shoulder as he brought the phone up to his ear. She easily overheard the conversation. She honed in on the words 'overdosed' and 'dies', along with the unidentified man telling John that the doctor didn't care either way. John hung up his phone and threw it against the wall. Miraculously, it didn't break, although the screen did acquire a crack that went along the entire length. Mary listened as John began panting, watched as his chest began lifting up and down quickly and his hands clenched into fists. "John," she said gently, putting her hand on his face and turning his head until they were looking at each other. "Who was that, then? Who's overdosed?"

"Nobody," John said quickly. "Just this...this man I used to know. My old flatmate."

Her eyes widened and she gasped softly. Her heart filled with pity, both for John and for the unidentified man sitting on death's door. "The poor thing," she said as she reached for a sheet, pulling it over her body. "Do you need help packing?"

John's brow furrowed and he looked at Mary, watching as the sheet was pulled up to cover her body. He wasn't aroused anymore, needless to say, but he still enjoyed the look of her. "Packing?" he repeated, cocking his head curiously. "Why would I be packing?"

Mary, clearly surprised by John's ignorance, stood and picked John's phone up while going into his closet and pulling out a few pairs of pants and socks for him. "To go and see your friend, of course. He needs you. You need to leave, right now."

"I'm not going." The words were cold and resolute, and they surprised Mary even more than his question.

"What do you mean? You have to go, you can't just leave him lying in a hospital bed alone. Clearly the man who called you thinks that he values you enough to want to see you, to need you there. You have to-"

"Look, I'm not going!" John said, standing up to appear more forceful. He walked over to his closet and grabbed her arm firmly, not enough to hurt her, but enough to make her stop packing his clothes.

"Sherlock has had /every/ opportunity to turn his life around, every chance to get clean, and he hasn't done it! This is what happens to drug addicts, they overdose! They overdose and then they-"

SLAP

John paused suddenly-he heard the noise before he felt his face stinging and turning warm, before he realized that Mary was standing there with her hand up in the air, having just struck him.

"You became a doctor to /help/ people," she said, clearly fighting to keep her voice composed. "I don't care if he's an addict. I don't care if he brought it upon himself. Apparently the man who called you thinks that this-this Sherlock-needs your help. I am not going to be with a man who isn't willing to help his friends, /especially/ one that swore to do just that in his profession. If you don't do this, you're not the man I thought you were, and I /will/ leave you."

Well. John hadn't been expecting that. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell Mary about everything Sherlock had done to him in the past...although as he thought about it, complaining that he always had to give up his seat or what the telly programs that Sherlock enjoyed instead of ones that he liked...well, it paled in comparison to the thought of Sherlock lying on a hospital bed, dying, and John ignoring him over a month-long grudge. He shook his head and mumbled 'fine', quickly pulling on a pair of pants and socks, then trousers and a shirt. He didn't need anything else; he had left so many clothes at the flat.

From what Lestrade had said, Sherlock spent every day high as a kite; it wasn't likely that he'd taken the time to throw his clothes out. "You're right," he said as he slipped his phone into his pocket, then grabbed his keys and wallet. "You're quite right. I have to go." Mary offered to drive him to the airport and he accepted. Upon arrival, she dropped him off at the front. He kissed her cheek and promised to call her, then rushed inside and got on the first plane to London.

When Lestrade hung up, he slumped against the wall and shuddered a sigh, still staring at the doors that Sherlock had disappeared through. He considered giving Mycroft a ring, but with the man's astounding contacts, it was highly unlikely he didn't know already. He waited for nearly an hour before the doctor tending to Sherlock escaped the room, Lestrade immediately rushing to his side. "What's going on?" he asked immediately, clenching his phone in his pocket.

The man hesitated at Lestrade's panicked eagerness, sighing slightly to himself. The doctor looked worn out, though Greg figured if he was dealing with people like himself rushing him every time he walked out of the door, he should he tired. "He's overdosed on a.. a very substantial amount of heroin and cocaine. We nearly lost him, but he's okay now, but nearly comatose at the moment. I'm not going to permit visitors yet. Just.. Leave your number and I'll give you a call when anything changes or when we'll allow visitations in." The doctor offered Greg a piteous smile as he passed the DI a pen, quickly having him write out his number before disappearing through those doors again. For a long moment, Lestrade said nothing, simply leaning against the wall, trying to comprehend everything that had happened. A moment later, however, he left the hospital and began on his way home, calling Mycroft to tell him that everything was fine. Once he hung up, however, he went through his contacts and deleted John's number.

The closer John got to London, the more and more worried he became. Mary had struck sense into him-literally-and had made him realize that what had happened was in the past. Sherlock was Sherlock for God's sake, and John didn't know why he had expected the man to act any differently. He had known since day one what he was getting into, he had tolerated it-hell, even enjoyed it some days-because in some sick way knowing that Sherlock needed him kept him alive. Sherlock had been the first person upon arriving back in London who hadn't pitied him, who hadn't treated him differently, and even though he had used that as ammunition to remain angry this past month, by the time his plane landed in London, he knew that it was actually something he had valued and appreciated.

He got off the plane as quickly as he could, lifting his carry-on bag over his shoulder. He ran out of the hotel, pushing past people, only taking enough time to say 'Sorry!'; he didn't stop, he didn't help them up, there was only one thing on his mind, and that thing was lying in a hospital bed near death. Was he still angry? Yes, furious. Hell hath no fury like an army doctor that has been a victim of Sherlock Holmes's abuse. However, he was trying to put things into perspective. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket, hardly noticing the cracked screen, and pressed 'redial' as he held the phone up to his hear, fingers drumming on his thigh as he waited for Lestrade to answer. It had been nearly two hours since they had last spoken, and John could only hope that nothing had happened.

Lestrade had been staring down into a plate of leftovers that he had warmed up in the microwave, the food not the least bit appetizing to him as he thought of Sherlock in the A&E, probably lying in bed, heart monitored by some machine. He sighed and pushed his plate away, getting up to leave his place and wait at the hospital. He'd feel more productive there. Then, his phone rang and he rapidly pulled it out of his pocket, hoping it was the hospital calling with an update. What it was, however, was a number deemed unfamiliar by his phone, though the DI recognized the digits to be belonging to John, whose number he'd deleted not long ago. At first, he thought it'd be better to just ignore the call, not willing to listen to one of John's apologies. However, he couldn't find the heart to ignore the number and picked up. "What is it, John? It's really not a good time," he muttered, imitating the tone John had when he had picked up the phone for Lestrade initially some couple of hours ago. As he pressed the phone to his ear, he swung on his coat and left his house, quickly hailing a taxi.

"I'm in London. What hospital is he at?" John spoke quickly; he needed a destination to give the cabbie. He heard Lestrade speaking in the same tone that he himself had earlier, and it both annoyed him and made him feel incredibly guilty. He deserved it, feeling guilty. John was ashamed that it had taken his girlfriend, a woman who didn't even know Sherlock Holmes, didn't even know the situation, to remind him of his Hippocratic Oath. Lestrade told him the name of the hospital-Bart's, he should have guessed.

"I'm on my way," John said before hanging up the phone. He wasn't in the mood to talk, either to Lestrade or anyone else. He sent Mary a text letting her know that he'd arrived safely and was on his way to the hospital. The driver seemed to sense his urgency and took the shortest possible route. John burst out of the cab, throwing a twenty-pound note to the driver and ran into the hospital. He gripped the information counter, panting. "Sherlock Holmes," he choked out, "I need to see Sherlock Holmes. Where is he?"

Admittedly, Lestrade had been surprised that John had decided to come to London, especially with the attitude that he'd taken towards anything that had to do with Sherlock recently. But he relinquished the address, nearly there himself and hung up, figuring he'd have plenty of time to visit Sherlock and leave without having to interact with John. He slipped inside of the hospital, stopping at the counter and getting his room, and waiting for another ten minutes before visitation with Sherlock was available. He stepped into Sherlock's room, but lingered at the doorway, feeling relieved just to be able to see the man was alive and well. However, John was due to be there soon from Heathrow, and so he stepped out into the hall, heading back down.

When he got to the main entrance, he saw John, receiving Sherlock's room number from the nurse there, but didn't say a word. He just clenched his teeth and began to walk away, heading for the door and brushing off John's presence as though he weren't there at all.

John got the number from the nurse at the counter and turned on his heels, walking quickly down the hallway and searching for Sherlock's room. As he raised his eyes to view the numbers, he caught sight of a very familiar figure at the end of the corridor. "Greg!" he called out, hoping that the man wouldn't pull a stunt as John did earlier and ignore him, or give him some simple, scathing comment. "Greg, wait!" He wasn't going to apologize-after all, he'd come all the way back to London at incredibly short notice; he was tired, sweaty, and mad as hell, but he was /there/. Wasn't that enough of an apology, even if it /was/ an unspoken one? "How is he? I know you don't want to talk to me, frankly, I don't want to talk to you, but at least tell me what they told you." Lestrade looked exhausted. His hair had become grayer and there were large bags under his eyes, which were bright red from lack of sleep. John clearly wasn't the only one who was worried, although it he /was/ the only one who was pissed off beyond belief.

"You didn't come here to have me debrief you on Sherlock's condition," Greg said, a breathy mutter as he headed for the doors and pulled them open. He hesitated, staring down at the floor and not once looking at John. He didn't want to see him, didn't want to look him in the eyes. "You can go find out yourself how he's been and ease your mind. I'm sure you're here because you feel guilty, not because you actually give a damn. Don't call me." With that, Greg scrubbed a hand down his exhausted face and left the hospital, determined to get home and get some rest. He had a feeling that wasn't the last time he'd be hearing from John, but at the moment he hoped and truly hoped it was.


	3. Chapter 3

**Me and Backarapper would like to thank you for the support! R&R if you'd like, as we do very much appreciate feedback. Again, we don't own Sherlock/Sherlock Holmes, just the idea for this story. **

Tonight was full of surprises. Was John _really_ so bitter that he had driven away Lestrade, Mycroft, Mary, everyone he ever gave a damn about? That remained to be seen. He wondered if Sherlock was awake, if he knew that he hadn't been there earlier, if he even knew Lestrade had called him a week ago. With a sigh, he shook his head, biting his bottom lip in an attempt to keep his emotions bottled up. He felt like a right arse, but he couldn't stop being angry. He still missed Kelly. Mary was amazing, fantastic, but John knew she expected him to give her a family, and children had never been a big priority for him. In fact, he didn't want them. At all. He had taken care of enough people in his life-patients, fellow soldiers, girlfriends, Harry, Sherlock. He wanted a break from it, a break from all of it. He thrived on being a caregiver, but sometimes it was nice to be taken care _of_ and he wanted to experience that. He went into Sherlock's room and the lip biting wasn't enough to keep a tear from falling down his face.

Sherlock was deathly pale, so much so that John had to look at the heart monitor to ensure that it was still beating. He had lost at least two stone. His skin was stretched taut over his bones, a rather sickly sight indeed. His hair was longer than he'd ever seen it, unruly and dirty, and he had sores around his mouth and lips. His arms were covered in puncture wounds from the heroin injections. Terrible. And this had all started when John had left. He walked towards the bed and pulled up the only spare chair beside it, the reached out and gingerly let his fingers rest on Sherlock's forearm, only for a brief moment. "Sherlock." he said softly, not wanting to wake the man if he were asleep. "Sherlock, it's me."

When Lestrade had come into the room, Sherlock was awake, merely playing pretend. To be honest, he didn't want to talk to the detective. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He wanted to rest, to concentrate on the IV dripping steadily into his arm.. What were they giving him? Probably the usual bagged sustenance. He sighed and nearly opened his eyes, but a few minutes later, he heard footsteps outside his door and so he remained still, listening as someone entered his room. Was.. That John's voice? Calling for him? He figured maybe it was a brief hallucination, but then he heard the man speak again, the warmth of his fingertips feeling unfamiliar against Sherlock's cold skin and causing the man's heart to clench in reaction. It displayed on the heart monitor and so he released a heavy sigh and pulled his arm from under John's hand to keep the man from touching him. "Leave me alone.." he muttered, though his voice was heavy and splintered, croaking from his near death ordeal.

Despite himself, Sherlock mustered the strength to sit up, reaching his arm over and ripping the IV and monitoring equipment out and off of him. His eyes, more dead than pale, scanned the room until they caught sight of his coat, slung over a nearby chair. Sherlock swung his legs over the edge of the bed away from John, his body feeling disturbingly stiff as he rose to a stand with a groan. He ached. God, did he ache. And his body craved, mind feeling as though it were eating itself alive until Sherlock managed to get another fix. His head was pounding, but he walked and grabbed his coat, slipping it on and not looking at John as he did so. The man left him. And although he had initially planned to bring John back through this method, the last thing he wanted now was for John to show up out of pity. Or worse yet, guilt. "You have no business with me, after all."

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" John demanded as he rose from his chair, watching with wide, unbelieving eyes as Sherlock got up and was preparing to leave as if it were no big deal that he had just nearly died. Then again, to Sherlock, it probably wasn't. His words-he'd said them to Sherlock before, when he had come home and caught the detective shooting holes into their wall out of pure boredom. Now he was standing and ripping out his IV, slipping on his coat ever-so-casually. It wasn't out of boredom, it was because he needed another fix. Damn the drugs. John had seen so many people go down from addictions. His father had been an alcoholic, his sister, even John himself had had some close encounters with the disease since he had moved to the Isle of Man.

Taking advantage of Sherlock's groggy state, he moved towards the door, quickly shutting it and standing in front of it. "Get back in bed," he said, and his voice automatically took on the tone of Captain John Watson once again. "_Now_." He doubted that Sherlock would listen to him. Even though they both knew Sherlock wasn't at his physical peak-and very, _very_ doubtful that he was at his mental one either-his obstinacy would still be there in full. John was the same way. He could be in excruciating pain but still find a way to maintain his pride. Sherlock stood still and John did the same. He wasn't going to touch Sherlock again-he wasn't ready to be that familiar or friendly, plus Sherlock jerking his hand away made it clear he wanted no part of it-but he certainly wasn't going to let the man leave.

For a long moment, Sherlock stared at John, eyes looking straight into John's as the man shut the door and stood in front of it, barking an order at the detective as though he still held any power over him. After a moment, Sherlock looked down, closing up his coat. "Don't speak to me as though you have the authority to do so, John. You left. Do it again." When John didn't seem like he was about to move, Sherlock shook his head and looked around, finding his trousers and pulling them on, sticking his feet bare into his shoes and not bothering with the rest. He moved to the window, shoving it open and popping out the screen before giving one more empty look to John before he began to attempt to climb out, not even positive what floor he was on, though once he got his head out the window he realized it was the first. Brilliant.

"Ah!" John gasped, rushing towards the window, unable to believe that Sherlock was actually climbing out of it. "No, no!" He grabbed the man's jacket and jerked on it, pulling him back into the room. This was for his own good in the long run. He used one hand to grip Sherlock's arm firmly. He knew he was probably hurting the detective-after all, he'd always had a _very _firm grip-but he didn't let down. Storming over to the other side of the room, Sherlock in tow, he flung the door open and called for a nurse. When she came, looking rather anxious from the tone and volume of his voice, he told her that they would need restraints for the bed. "I will leave," John promised Sherlock, not bothering to look at him, "But not until you're well enough that your fucking brother and Lestrade are off my back. It's been over a month, and _they _are the ones who think I have authority over you, _not _me." The words were harsh. Seeing Sherlock in such a pitiful state had brought out all the positive feelings he'd ever held for the man; seeing him being pigheaded and disobedient was making him remember all the negatives.

When John ripped Sherlock from the window, the man stumbled, struggling against the grip that felt as though it would snap his arm. "John!" he shouted. "John, unhand me this instant!" He watched as the doctor summoned a nurse for restraints and that instantly sparked a blazing fire in Sherlock, the need to escape more dire than ever. He hated hospitals. More so, he hated feeling trapped in them. "Let me go!" he shouted as John put out the order, and though it was drastic, when John began to turn back into the room, Sherlock threw a punch, landing it over John's jaw with the sharp crack of flesh striking flesh with a ferocity Sherlock didn't show for much of anything else. When the blow landed, unexpected, John's grip loosened just enough for Sherlock to rip himself free and rush to the window, hurriedly pushing himself out of it before anyone could restrain him. He wasn't going to be trapped there. He needed a fix, and he was stubborn and determined to get away from the A&E.

John stumbled back when Sherlock punched him, amazed that the scrawny, greasy man had that much strength left in him. He barely had time to turn his head to see Sherlock's jumping out of the window, taking off in a surprisingly fast dash across the hospital parking lot. "Dammit!" he cursed loudly as he lifted himself off the floor. He rushed over to the window, lifting himself out of it, and taking off as fast as he could after him. Sherlock had longer legs and was athletic, but he was also weakened from his ordeal, and John hoped the adrenaline and the urge to have a fix would only last so long. It didn't _really_ matter though-after all, he was obviously going back to 221B. John would have hailed a cab there instead of chasing the lunatic detective, but he couldn't take the risk that a police officer under a different order than Lestrade would pick him up. He wasn't sure how long Mycroft would, as Lestrade had told him, continue to pay off any fines, continue to bribe the law officials to look the other way.

"Sherlock!" he shouted as he ran, wincing at the pain that radiated from his jaw as he moved his mouth to form the name. "Sherlock, stop! Stop!" He didn't know why he was shouting-after all, Sherlock _wouldn't_ stop. He hadn't in the hospital; he hadn't now. He wasn't thinking clearly. The mind of an addict. He was desperate to get his next hit, nothing else mattered, neither his own safety or the safety of anyone else. He watched as Sherlock ran down one of the lanes of parked cars. Thinking quickly, John cut through the lane beside it, ducking low so that he couldn't be seen. He had only a moment to wait at the last car before Sherlock came bounding out from the other row, but a moment was all John needed. He leaped out from behind the outermost car and tackled Sherlock, his muscular, firm body slamming into the skeletal detective. They both fell onto the pavement, John on top, and he immediately pinned Sherlock down, lifting his pale arms over his head.

"STOP IT!" he yelled again, face only inches from Sherlock's. "You need to _calm down_ and _THINK_! Think about what you're doing, Sherlock!" He hoped that telling Sherlock to think-formerly the man's favorite past-time-would encourage him to pause, if only for a moment. "Don't make punch you," John said as his chest lifted and fell with rapid breaths. "I will knock you out Sherlock, but please don't make me." They had gotten off on a rocky restart at it was; knocking the man unconscious would _not_ be a good way to end the day.

When Sherlock took off, though weakened by his experience, lack of movement in the last month and the weight he'd lost, he felt relieved, freed from the idea of being trapped in that godforsaken place, forced to breathe slowly there and inhale the scent of disinfectant. The first stop was obviously home, and likely the last stop as well. He'd curl up in the mess of his flat and delve into his drugs, forget about John and everything, just—

The train of thought slipped away as a hard body tackled against his own frail one, knocking the wind out of Sherlock for a moment. Once he regained it, however, John was above him, shouting and pinning his arms up. Sherlock growled and struggled. Glaring at John hatefully. "You stop it!" he shouted at John, backing his head away as far as he could from the doctor's. "What do you care?! I don't want to think! I don't want to think, John! I want to go home, and I want you to leave so I can waste away in peace! Now.. Get OFF!" With that, Sherlock rammed his head forth, smashing his forehead up against the bridge of John's nose, hitting the man between the eyes and dazing him enough to get out from under him. Sherlock struggled to a stand, breathing heavily as he looked down at John. He knew, god did he know how much he needed John, had always needed John and still did. But the man wasn't here because he cared. He wasn't here because he needed Sherlock. And that pained far more than the man's absence. "I want you to /leave/," he growled stubbornly. "If you want me to get sober, /fine/. I'll get sober. Then you can go on your merry way." Sherlock turned and continued to head off towards the flat, fuming. It didn't matter if he got better. He'd only get worse when John was gone again. Although, next time, he'd do a much better job of hiding it.

John didn't follow him. If Sherlock wanted to be alone, so be it, he'd allow it. But he knew that he had to be there for Sherlock's detox. Hell, if John left now, both men knew that there would /be/ no detox. John needed to get to the bottom of why Sherlock had even started the drugs again in the first place. He had been doing so well! Not only with the drugs, but even with _smoking._ How did he go from wearing nicotine patches to being nothing more than a disgusting, pitiful drug addict? John felt his heart sink, and it was more painful than either his jaw or his nose, which was now beginning to leak blood out of his left nostril. Was it because he had left? Is /that/ what started this...this horrible, awful, downward spiral of Sherlock's? John had been doing wonderful, dating a beautiful girl, close to receiving a promotion, saving up to buy his own home, and Sherlock had been resorting to seedy drugs and living in filth. John hadn't noticed it before, but being on top of the man had given him time to smell him. He reeked of body odor and foul breath, even a touch of urine. Sherlock had never been a master at keeping the flat tidy, but he had always taken pride in his personal appearance. Now he looked like an albino skeleton with tiny polka dots all up and down both his arms. His nose and lips, as John had noticed earlier, were raw and wounded by the drug. The great Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, had been reduced to...this.

John used his shirt collar to press against his bleeding nose, wishing that he had've thought to get his bag so he could at least hold a bunched up sock against it. He went to the road and hailed a cab, ordering the driver to take him to Baker Street. At this point, he didn't care if he beat Sherlock there or not. Sherlock would insist that he leave either way. Traffic was late-a rare occurrence in London-so it was only about fifteen minutes before the taxi pulled up in front of his old flat. John hadn't kept the key, so he had to pound on the door. He heard Mrs. Hudson's familiar gait, and when she opened it, she flung her arms around his neck and began sobbing into his shoulder. She was talking but John couldn't make out the words, only heard the name 'Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock' said over and over again. "I know," he said softly, letting his hand move up to pat her back. "I know. He's going to get better, you'll see. We'll fix him up."


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to everyone who is reading/following/favoriting this story. It's very much appreciated! As always, a special thanks to those of you who take a few seconds to leave feedback. Without further ado, here's chapter four! **

Using his many shortcuts, Sherlock slipped into the flat not five minutes before John arrived through the traffic. But as he sorted through the mess of the flat, picking his poisons and bringing them to his chair, he could hear Mrs. Hudson giving a sobbing greeting to John and he rolled his eyes. Why couldn't the man just leave him alone like he initially planned to? John wasn't supposed to be involved in Sherlock's life anymore and from what Sherlock could gather from the man's appearance, his health.. He was better off wherever he was without Sherlock.

The man felt that familiar tug on his heart and he simply wanted it to go away, so he grabbed cocaine, prepared a syringe, and injected himself as John came upstairs, grateful to have locked the door to the flat. All at once, when the drugs diluted into his blood stream, Sherlock's body was a harmony, feeling at peace and not sick. It only bothered him a little bit in a very small part in the back of his brain that he had become so dependent on the drugs to bring relief, but there was little else available to him.

After being told by Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock was already in the flat, John squeezed her shoulder and went up the steps, holding his collar to his nose once again. Damn thing wouldn't stop bleeding and it was aching like mad. His jaw was hurting too, but it thankfully wasn't broken, nor was his nose. Just incredibly fucking sore. He reached to turn the doorknob, only to find that it was locked. Typical Sherlock. He knew there would be no point in asking Sherlock to open it for him, and he wasn't about to ask Mrs. Hudson, so John merely raised his leg and kicked as close to the handle as his foot could reach. The door swung open. The handle easily slid into the hole that John had made just over a month before, he noticed. Nostalgia at its best. The room was dark. The curtains had been pulled over the windows; the only light came from the small window in the kitchen. John glanced into the room-the blinds were pulled over it, too, but they managed to let a little light in. There were dishes stacked up in the sink, all over the table, syringes carelessly placed. They were even thrown on the ground. The flat smelled awful: body odor, vomit, mold, burnt matches.

He saw Sherlock sitting on the floor, back leaning against his chair. The man was surrounded by trash, but he didn't seem the least bit phased. He may not have even been aware. Papers, plastic cups, empty cigarette cartons, more syringes, take out containers (there were only a few of these, clearly Sherlock hadn't been eating), dirty plates and bowls, many of which still contained food. Flies were buzzing around the room, landing on furniture, dishes, even on Sherlock, who shifted his eyes to the insect and watched it as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. It probably was to him. Cocaine was a powerful drug and made the slightest thing seem like a world event. "Nice place you've got here," John said bitterly. He would have sat down, but his chair seemed to be especially covered in used hypodermics. "I really like the syringes. Nice touch."

Sherlock snorted slightly at John's commentary, but didn't shift his eyes away from the fly, simply staring at the creature sat, front legs rubbing together repeatedly, scheming. He took the syringe just used and turned, tossing it onto what was formerly John's chair without a care in the world. "I've always been a sort of home decorator," he sighed as he eased back and closed his eyes, letting himself relish the sensation of the drug in his veins again, though it didn't feel like nearly enough. "You can stay at a hotel, though. This is my flat. I don't want you here." How bitter that lie tasted on his tongue, but Sherlock's pride was potent, and he was still hurt by what he saw to be as John abandoning him. Opening his eyes,

Sherlock groaned as he stood, jamming his hand in his pocket and fingering the small bag of white powder he kept there. "I'm going out," he muttered, feeling as though his stock had somewhat depleted. "You can leave with me. Don't bother with any of your clothes; I destroyed nearly all of them," Sherlock said as he recalled a particularly hazy and furious fit he'd had where he tore apart, burned and destroyed anything that held a semblance to John. That was when he gave up on the man coming back and also when he really kicked into the drugs. Sherlock moved to the door and held it open, waiting for John to leave first, though the man had already broken the lock. "You need to pay for this," Sherlock muttered as he pointed to the destroyed lock with a displeased look on his face. He shifted his hand to point at the hole John had made in the wall the day he left, the majority of it plugged with cigarette butts. "You have to pay for that too."

"Where are you going?" John asked, watching as Sherlock lifted himself up. Obviously he was going to go with Sherlock-it wasn't safe for the man to be out alone, but John wouldn't-couldn't-stop him. If being a doctor had taught him anything, it was that addicts would only stop when they wanted to, and this was blatantly obvious with Sherlock. Even high as a kite Sherlock was cunning and would find a way out, even if that meant jumping out the window and falling on Mrs. Hudson's bins, breaking his arms and legs in the process. He crossed his arms and looked up at Sherlock. He hated his height. It had always been a rather unflattering experience when he would be giving orders to a lower-rank in the army and have to lift his head to look at them. However, he was confident in himself, confident in his abilities and his knowledge to do the right thing, and this was no different. He allowed his mind to quickly run through any conceivable scheme that Sherlock could be planning, but there was nothing he could think of. After all, it wasn't like he could lock him out of the flat, that had already been established. "I don't need to tell you," he said, leaning against the door frame, waiting for Sherlock to leave first, even though the detective wanted it to be the opposite way round, "that this is a terrible, horrible, awful idea. One of your worst, in fact."

Seeing that there was no point in waiting for John to exit the flat first, Sherlock frowned and rolled his eyes, glancing at John. "I don't care what sort of idea you think it is, John," he stated before slamming the door shut after himself, jogging down the steps of 221b and escaping out the front door, closing it behind him to, of course, obstruct John's view of him. But it was pointless to get a cab; he was tight on money as it was. But that's what this run was about. Taking the pack of cigarettes the nurses left in his pocket, Sherlock lit up a cigarette, inhaling sharply and breathing out dark fumes of smoke with a hum of satisfaction as the nicotine flooded him. He began to walk down the sidewalk, finding his first mark and casually bumping shoulders with him as Sherlock passed. "Sorry," he muttered under his breath as he slipped his index and middle fingers into the man's pocket and slipped out his bulky wallet, removing some fifty bucks before dropping the wallet on the street and continuing to walk casually. He didn't bother to check if John was following him; he didn't care.

John saw it all, the telltale signs of what he assumed to be a drug run. Harry had a similar desperate look in her eyes before going to the liquor store. Granted, alcohol was legal, but an addiction is an addiction is an addiction. He saw Sherlock bump into a man, saw him take the poor bloke's wallet. John rushed up to the stranger, apologizing profusely. "Sir, Sir-I, um...here," he crouched down and picked up the wallet from the man, handing it to him as he reached for his own wallet and gave him all the bills he had in it. "I'm-I'm sorry, he-he's sick." He didn't stop to hear the man's response, hoping instead that the money he had given would keep him quiet. It wouldn't be that hard to pin the theft on Sherlock when the man realized his wallet was missing. 'Could someone have taken it?' they would ask him, to which he would reply, 'Well, there was a very tall, gangly fellow with a long coat, looked rather sickly'. Boom, the coppers would be all over Sherlock. "You owe me," he called to Sherlock, keeping a bit of a distance between himself and the other man. "How about we call it even for the hole in the wall and the lock, yeah?"

"No," Sherlock muttered as he blew a cloud of smoke out, eyes focused straight ahead. "That was your choice. I wasn't going to give that man his money back. The fact that you decided to give him money has nothing to do with me. You don't owe me anything save for repairs on that wall and now the door to my flat." As he passed by a woman, he discreetly reached into her purse and did the same thing, plucking free her wallet and emptying it, waiting until she was farther off before tossing it behind himself at John. "Here. Feel like paying someone else? Go ahead," Sherlock said as he jammed the money in his pocket without a single hint of remorse. It's their own fault for being such easy pickpocket marks, after all. "Though, if you can convince Mycroft to return to me the fund that are rightfully mine, I'll let the fact that you broke my door and put a hole in my wall go."

"He's not giving you money?" John asked incredulously. He let the wallet fall to the ground, although it pained him to do so. If he picked it up and returned it to the woman, Sherlock would pickpocket someone else just to spite him, waiting to see how many times John would humiliate himself by returning their wallet and apologizing for his 'sick friend'. "Well, I don't blame him a bit. You said you destroyed my clothes, so you owe me for that, too, by the way." As they continued to walk, John's words caught up with him. He began taking large strides to catch up with Sherlock, although he wasn't planning to walk side-by-side with the man. "How are you still in 221B? Mrs. Hudson letting you live there for free? That's awful nice of her, since you've destroyed the place. It's disgusting, Sherlock. You know that, right?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't owe you for anything you left in my flat. You left it there. It was mine to do with as I please. As for Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft is using my money. He's simply not allowing me to use it. Thinks it'll keep me from buying drugs." he snorted with derision as he pickpocketed another man, turning down an alley and emptying the wallet before turning and chucking it, watching as it landed in the fire escape, out of John's reach. Much to his delight. "He's paying Mrs. Hudson my rent with my money. I wouldn't live there if I couldn't afford to. Mrs. Hudson needs to make a living as well."

To Sherlock, it mattered little. He figured he didn't have very long to live anyway. He paused in his footing for a moment as that thought crossed his mind. Could that be considered suicidal? How curious. Sherlock continued walking as he considered the possibility of himself being suicidal, frowning at the thought. He supposed it didn't matter if he died. As a matter of fact, it would probably be easier than playing this game where John makes him better again and leaves. Again? The frown on Sherlock's face deepened. Yes, he supposed that John made him better before, but.. he abandoned Sherlock. He was planning on doing so again. "What a dull game.." Sherlock sighed under his breath.

It was John's typical luck that didn't bring his suitcase to the flat with him, only to find out that Sherlock had destroyed all of his. He didn't want to stay long, he didn't _plan_ on staying long, but he certainly wasn't going to wear the same shirt and trousers the entire time he was there. And he'd just given his money to some stranger, only to find out that Sherlock was going to continue stealing money from more and more people. Great. Just great. He nearly bumped into Sherlock when the man suddenly stopped in the alley. John leaned forward and saw Sherlock's face falling deeper and deeper into thought, unpleasant thoughts by the look of them. He took off again at the same, brisk pace.

"Game?" John repeated upon hearing Sherlock mutter. "What game are you talking about?" John began wondering if this was a bad idea, coming with Sherlock on a drug run. What else could it be? "No, you know what, forget that-I have another question for you." John caught up with Sherlock, getting close enough so he could grab his arm. "Why do you keep talking to me like you _wanted_ me to come with you? Do you get a kick out of watching me watch you kill yourself with drugs, is that what this is? You like me seeing how far you've fallen? Consulting-detective-turned-petty-criminal?"

Sherlock whirled on his heel at John's last comments, his face dark and angry as he leaned towards the shorter man. "I did not _ask_ you to accompany me, John. Not at all. You decided to come of your own volition, and this is what you get," he growled as he steadily leaned closer to John. "I don't _want_ you here. Understand me? I want you to leave. Go back to your life. Clearly, it made you _much_ happier than anything you had here." Slowly, no longer speaking through tightly clenched teeth, Sherlock turned away from John with a flourish of his coat and walked down the alley, muttering angrily to himself. He supposed he might have asked John at some point, though. Just to show him how miserable he was without him, just so he could see what he had caused. But that wouldn't be fair to John. But what was fair anymore? Fair was seventy pounds for high grade cocaine, that was fair. And nothing else mattered. Not anymore.

Well, Sherlock had him there. John hadn't been formally invited, but he hadn't been stopped, either. Plus, Sherlock was openly conversing with him. If nothing else, at least John could report to Mycroft and Lestrade that he wasn't so broken that he couldn't form complete sentences. Sherlock was high right now, he knew that; he'd noticed it back at the flat. He had a faint bit of powder under his nose that he had only seen when leaning in close to John, his eyes were red, pupils were tiny. "Are we almost there?" John couldn't help but ask. He wanted to get Sherlock back to the flat as soon as possible. Exposure to people when he was like this wasn't a good idea. If John hadn't felt so bloody guilty about the whole thing, he wouldn't have come at all.

"Unfortunately, John," Sherlock began as he continued to walk, a bit of a bitterness to his posture as his feet splashed into puddles and such as he stepped through them in the dank alleyway. "I'm not letting you go with me. I'm going to keep walking through a maze of alleyways until one of two things happen. You go away, or I find a way to slip away from you and leave you to try and find your own way home. I know how you operate. As soon as you know where it is, you're going to go and have Lestrade arrest everyone there." Sherlock dropped his cigarette on the ground, pausing to scrape it out with the bottom of his shoe. He didn't bother to look at John as he continued his brisk pace again, long legs easily making John move much faster to keep up. He'd lose the man; he was determined to. "You might as well go and get some clothes, a hotel room, and plane tickets back to wherever your happiness is, hm? And leave me here to wallow in mine." Just being around John was stressing Sherlock out to the point of pulling free another cigarette and lighting it, inhaling sharply to let the billowing smoke fill his lungs. Chain smoking. It'd been a while since he got to do that.

John cocked his head, making every effort to ensure that Sherlock wouldn't the annoyed expression that came over his face or the roll of his eyes. Sherlock was moving faster now, no doubt motivated by his own speech about losing John or discouraging him until he left on his own free will. "That's fine," John said, trying to keep the panting out of his voice. Athletic or not, they'd been darting up and down alleyways for the past fifteen minutes and he was beginning to feel the effects. "I needed a nice stroll anyway. I've got a new lady in my life, and you know how people tend to gain weight in relationships. Well, maybe _you _wouldn't know that, but most people do. Normal people." He wasn't sure why he brought up Mary, particularly since he had made the decision on the plane to avoid talking about her, lest Sherlock pull some stunt like he had before. The opportunity to be snarky right back to Sherlock was too much to pass up. He watched as Sherlock pulled out another cigarette and slipped it between his lips like his life depended on it.

"You don't seem very happy," John informed him. "In fact, you seem the opposite. Downright depressed. Don't-Don't tell me you're bored." He was starting to pant outright now; he couldn't help it. The now-twenty minutes of brisk walking, basically jogging, by his standards, was catching up with him. "Lestrade told me Moriarty's up and about. Shouldn't you be focusing on taking him down? You know you're the only one that can." He hoped the combination of the lie, and the compliment, would be enough to make Sherlock pause. Flattery had worked in the past, maybe it would work now, too. He needed time to breathe; he hadn't slept or stopped in nearly three days and it was catching up with him.

_Normal people._ Why did that bother him so much? He wasn't included in that. He wasn't included in much, but he figured humanity as a whole had him included, but even in being a person he was excluded. And.. A new woman. Why did that make his heart clench? Why did that make him want to shout his dissatisfaction? "I don't _care _about Moriarty," Sherlock growled, hearing how John was feeling less than fit, pushing himself while the pace that Sherlock held was even and he was just fine. "None of that matters. The work.. It's all pointless." With that, he began a full on sprint, knowing that despite his depleted fitness, he could still outlast John in endurance. He swung around a corner and dashed, checking swiftly over his shoulder to see that John hadn't turned the corner yet before ducking into an alcove and slipping into a dirty red door, hoping that the man hadn't caught sight of him as he did so. Once inside, Sherlock dropped his cigarette on the floor and stubbed it out, giving a quick grin to his dealer-Victor-as he stepped over with a smile on his face.

What had happened that had changed Sherlock _so_ much? He got on drugs, okay. People did that, they relapsed. Their entire personalities—their goals—didn't always change. How had Sherlock Holmes, the man who only cared about the work, go from mulling over Moriarty's cases, hour after hour, completely obsessing over them, to not caring at all? Claiming not to, anyway. The work was pointless? Since when had the work been pointless? A month ago, it had been all that mattered. Sherlock suddenly took off running and John had to take a deep breath before taking off after him. He made a promise to himself right then and there that he was going to start jogging again, every morning. John saw Sherlock turn to the left, but when he rounded the corner, he was gone. Clearly he didn't disappear into thin air...so where had he...ah. John walked a few meters down the alley, stopping when he saw a grungy, bright red door in the wall. He took a few deep breaths, gearing himself up for whatever was inside. It could be one druggie or one hundred; one never knew. One final breath, and then John pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Sherlock had just completed a simple deal with Victor-a hundred and seventy-five pounds for three grams of cocaine-when John walked in, the deal having already reached completion. Sherlock watched as John walked in, confronted with only himself and Victor before he sighed. "I was hoping you wouldn't catch where I'd gone," he murmured as he bypassed John and slipped out into the alleyway, moving down the pathways at a quick pace again, not caring if he left John in the dust. Victor could easily relocate; he had multiple spots throughout London he crashed in and he always updated Sherlock of his whereabouts. So, he supposed, it mattered little that John had found them. Heading home, Sherlock felt a low rumble in his stomach, but ignored it. He didn't care about such things anymore. Let hunger kill him. Or the drugs will get him first. Either way. He wasn't actually resolute about dying, but if it came, it came and he felt as though it were too much effort for too little results to try to not die. There was no work anymore. There was no reason.

John was on Sherlock's heels immediately, having gotten a bit of his wind back. "I don't believe you, you know," he said to the man as they walked back to Baker Street. "I think you wanted me to follow you, and I think you wanted me to find out where you got your stuff. Know why?" He didn't bother waiting for Sherlock's response. "Because you hate what you're doing, and that makes you hate yourself. You want to stop, but you're too bloody stubborn to ask anyone for help, particularly from the three people who are more than willing to give it to you. You could easily have lost me in the alley, you could easily have punched me, tripped me, done anything to keep me from finding out where you were going, but you didn't." He knew that Sherlock would have a rebuttal. 'You aren't worth my time' or 'They'll just get a new location anyway' or perhaps, 'You're going to leave soon so why do I care what you do now?'. John didn't care about that, he just hoped that he would get an answer, some type of answer, however vague it may be.

"If I wanted help, John, I would have stayed in the rehabilitation center. Or the hospital. I wouldn't even need to ask for it. But I don't want help, John." He stopped walking for a moment, turning to lean against a wall, blue eyes, more alive now that he had his high, locked on John's. "You, however, want help in a different way. You want so desperately to fix me because you feel so guilty. Look at you, trying so hard. Really, it's nearly pathetic. You're following me around, trying to talk me out of what I _want_ so _you_ can feel better about yourself." Sherlock wanted another hit of the coke, but didn't go for it. Not in front of John. He was used to John not seeing him do that sort of thing, and taking coke in the middle of an alleyway was less than pleasant sounding to Sherlock. "It's nearly funny, you know. The way you're using me, trying to fix what I don't think is broken for your own benefit."

"You're right," John said bluntly. He surprised himself by doing so, and he could tell that Sherlock was surprised as well at his immediate admission. "You are _absolutely_ right. I didn't want to come. It wasn't the first time Lestrade had called me. The last time I all but told him that I could give a flying fuck about what happens to you. However, you're wrong about one thing. I'm self-motivated to be here, that is true, but I'm not here to 'cure' you to fix my guilty conscious. I'm not here because _I_ feel bad." He stepped closer to Sherlock and let the anger, the fury in his eyes speak volumes. "I'm here for Mary. _She_ is the one who told me to come, Sherlock. I wasn't going to. The only reason I am here getting you clean is for her. Do you understand that? Her. Not you. She was going to leave me. As soon as I hang around for a couple of days, make her think that I tried to get you to clean up your act, I'll be able to go back there and your brother, Lestrade, Mary, and _you_ will never say another word to me on the matter. So let's just deal with each other for a few days, play the game, make it look like we each give two shits about fixing you up, and then I'll be back in my life, and you can stay and rot in yours. Clear?"

When Sherlock heard that this was _Mary's_ doing, he felt an angry little twitch inside of himself that managed to make its way up to his face, pulling at the skin beneath his eye for a moment. Jealousy. Is that what it felt like? This roiling emptiness inside his stomach.. Was that jealousy? He had felt something similar when John was with Kelly. Sighing to himself, Sherlock slumped down the alley wall, pulling his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms about his knees. "Please leave me alone," he muttered dryly as he ducked his head down into his arms. "You can stay in a motel. I'll pay for it. Tell Mary you helped me, lie. I don't care. Just.. stay away from me, you've done enough." Sherlock was tired. Exhausted, really, and he remained curled up there at the alley wall, staring down at the filthy ground from between his knees, his mind reeling. This was so cruel to Sherlock, to bring back John for only a few days. He didn't want it at all, he never wanted to see John again. At least, he thought so.

Sherlock knew that never seeing John again would be devastating to his psyche, which was why he started the drugs in the first place, to bring him back. But John wouldn't stay. Not for Sherlock. It was just a tease, and Sherlock was simply exhausted. He sighed heavily against his legs as he brought a hand up to curl through his hair. He didn't seem upset, or sad, just worn out as he remained curled up in the alley.

John crouched down beside Sherlock. He had two battling urges inside his mind. One was telling him to put his hand on Sherlock's arm, to apologize for everything that he said and did, both today and the last time they had spoken with each other. The other part of him said, who is he to make you feel guilty? You've done enough for him. You've saved his life as often as he's saved yours; you're even. This doesn't matter. He's going to be the death of himself, and it won't be your fault, not at all. John extended his hand, fingers almost on the man's arm, but at the last moment he shook his head and stood, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets and walking out of the alley. He didn't know what he planned to do, but he _did_ know that he needed a break from Sherlock Holmes. Five weeks hadn't been enough. He walked languidly back to Baker Street, kicking the occasional rock along the sidewalk.

When he arrived at 221B, he had to wait for Mrs. Hudson to let him in once again. She looked at him, eyes wide, expectant, but he frowned at her and shook his head. He went back up to his flat—no, _Sherlock's_ flat-and looked around again at the horrid state it was in. If nothing else, he could at least clean up a bit. For Mrs. Hudson's sake. He went into the kitchen and got out the roll of garbage bags and began stuffing old newspapers and cartons inside, being incredibly careful not to prick himself on one of the many syringes lying around. It took three bags to contain all the trash. Once that was done, he started on the dishes. It was sickening, the amount of mold and bugs that were crawling around on them. Some of them were so filthy he didn't bother to clean them; he just threw them in a bag and dropped it-along with the other bags-out the window and down beside the bins. He made sure to pull the curtains apart and open both windows to let in some fresh air. It was cold air, yes, but fresh all the same. The syringes he saved for last, carefully lifting them one at a time into an empty Tupperware container before sealing it and wrapping it in a bag. He'd give it to Mrs. Hudson, tell her to have Mycroft come and fetch it. Maybe they could find where the drugs were manufactured or sold.

One last place he wanted to go-his bedroom. He walked up the second flight of steps and sighed when he opened his old bedroom door. His clothes were torn to shreds. Some had very obvious burn marks, others had been cut with scissors. Sherlock had written on the walls, although it was in a foreign language, one that he had no clue of what it said. The furniture was knocked over, his mirror was smashed, and there was what appeared to be dried blood on the glass shards. Why had Sherlock even been in his room? It didn't make sense.

As John left, Sherlock turned his head, watching as the smaller doctor maintained his gait and turned out of the alleyway, away from Sherlock. He was coming down from his high, but already the low had hit when he was struck by more sobering thoughts. When John was out of sight, Sherlock visibly relaxed, his shoulders easing and his breath slowing as his pale face turned back to his knees and remained still for quite a while. He didn't want to move, and there was no rush to get home. As a matter of fact, he was content to simply sit there, dozing in and out of sleep.

That is, until a warm hand pressed to his shoulder. Sherlock groggily looked up to see the familiar face of his dealer, Victor. He and Victor could have been considered friends. They were fairly close in Uni and Sherlock had been an on and off customer for years. So when Victor offered him a couch to sleep on for the night, Sherlock only hesitated a moment before deciding it was far better than going to the flat where John was, inevitably, waiting for him. "Yes. If you'll have me, I suppose." Victor nodded and extended a hand which Sherlock took, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet before following Victor home, having a discussion regarding the chemical cleansing process of his heroin. It may not have been a normal conversation, per say, but it was the most normal social interaction Sherlock had experienced in a month, despite being not a part of normal people, as John had said. Victor was kind enough not to mention John or ask about him, having never been the sort to delve into others personal problems, which was how Sherlock preferred it. Before long, Sherlock was at Victor's place, a location unbeknownst to John or Lestrade, and a relationship Mycroft was unaware of. Off the grid, if just for a night on someone else's couch.

Two hours went by, then three. Three turned to five, which turned to six. John, as exhausted as he was, couldn't fall asleep. He'd been lying on the couch for four hours, twisting and turning, but he couldn't relax. Sherlock wasn't back yet, and he had no idea where he could be. Still in the alley? With Mycroft? The library? They all seemed so unlikely. John texted Lestrade, not caring that it was well after midnight.

What's Sherlock's number? JW

Lestrade wrote him back almost immediately. No doubt he was experiencing the same worry-induced insomnia that John was. He didn't ask any follow-up questions, didn't ask John how things were going, merely replied with the digits. Clearly he had already heard that Sherlock left Bart's. Hell, it had probably been on the nightly news.

Where are you? JW

John waited half an hour and received no response from Sherlock, not that he had really been expecting one. He got a flashlight out of the one of the kitchen cabinets, then went into Sherlock's bedroom and retrieved one of his scarves and a pair of gloves from his closet. He went, as quietly as he could, into Mrs. Hudson's portion of the flat before he left and grabbed her keyring so he wouldn't have to wake her up at this hour. The poor woman needed as much sleep as she could get. John pulled the scarf around his neck and the gloves onto his hands as he left. The air outside was bitter cold, and it pierced through John's clothes and skin the minute he was outside. He went to the alley he and Sherlock had been earlier, letting his flashlight dart around for any clue of where the man may have gone. He couldn't remember the exact route they had taken-Sherlock's plan had worked after all, it seemed-but he had to try.

John spent two hours going down each and every alley, gradually remembering his footing. He found the red door again and knocked, hoping that they may have seen Sherlock. He stood outside for ten minutes, knocking as loudly as he could, but nobody answered. He considered asking Lestrade for Mycroft's number, as well, but decided against it. It wasn't unusual for drug addicts to disappear overnight. If he's not back by tomorrow afternoon, I'll contact Mycroft, he finally decided, as he returned to 221B. His sprained nose was hurting. He had let it drain as he sat on the couch and applied ice to both his jaw and his nose, which helped the swelling immensely. When he got back to the flat and positioned himself on the couch once again, he typed out one more text:

I'm worried about you. JW

As John's finger lingered over the 'send' button, he shook his head and pressed 'delete' instead.


	5. Chapter 5

**This chapter involves arguments, emotional turmoil, frustration, stubbornness, and a bit of tenderness thrown in for good measure. If you like it (or hate it even) please drop a line of feedback. I see that lots of people read this story and tons of people are following it, but not a lot of people review which makes me wonder of they read it and then don't like it, or don't like where it's going or something. To those of you that do leave a response, it is very much appreciated, so thank you!**

Once at Victor's, Sherlock quickly settled in, sitting down on the couch and pulling his coke out from his pocket. He placed it on the table, unfastening his jacket and doffing it only to recall that he had on the hospital gown as a shirt underneath. He did away with that too, tossing it in the trash as Victor stared in mild confusion. "Overdose," Sherlock said simply and Victor nodded his understanding, not speaking, not judging. Sitting with Victor, Sherlock ignored the buzzing of his phone and instead began to get high with Victor, focusing on coke and relishing in the increased movement of his mind, his body finally feeling as though it were at the correct operational speed again. After a few hours and a small dinner with Victor, Sherlock curled up on the couch, preparing to get some much needed sleep. He checked the text from John with a frown, not caring to divulge his location to the man. He'd have to stop in for a shirt tomorrow, but aside from that, he had no plans to get anywhere near to John. Victor had offered him a steading for a couple of days, and Sherlock was happy to accept.

Soon enough, the drug addled detective had nearly fallen unconscious with how heavy his sleep was, not waking up until sometime close to noon. When he did, Victor's place was void of life, no trace of the man save for a note on the kitchen counter regarding him having to work and that he'll be back late into the night. For once, since Sherlock wasn't feeling so bogged down by the memories of his surroundings (as he often did in 221b) he went into Victor's bathroom and showered, getting somewhat cleaned up before redressing in just his trousers, pulling on his coat and leaving for the flat.

He walked, although it was pretty far off, and slipped inside of the building, hoping John had gone off somewhere as he went up to his flat to pick up a shirt and some new trousers. Maybe pack a bag for a couple of days. If Victor was keen on the idea, Sherlock could stay there until John left then get out of the dealer's hair. Until then, he needed to focus on what was at hand, which was retrieving one of his shirts.

John was in the kitchen when Sherlock came in. The slow gait, taking one step at a time-he'd clearly had an _exciting_ night. He couldn't help but feel relieved, albeit pissed off that the man was back safe and sound. He put the mug of tea he'd been sipping down on the counter and walked to Sherlock's bedroom, crossing his arms and leaning in the doorway. "How was your night, then?" John looked quite a fright-going out in the cold weather had given him a rather bad cold. His sprained nose was dripping mucous, his voice was hoarse, and he had been coughing and sneezing all morning, both of which were painful thanks to the injuries Sherlock had inflicted on him. He watched as Sherlock grabbed some clothes, raising his eyebrows. Clearly he had no intention of staying. "Oh, and before you ask, mine was great, Sherlock, thanks. Staying up all night wondering what the hell you're doing and who the hell you're doing it with, I can think of no better way to spend an evening. Although, running around some alleys at one in the bloody morning was a close second. You could have at least texted me back. It would have been the decent thing to do. Not that you've ever cared about that, granted, but I still feel that I should point it out." He stood away from the doorway so that he could motion to the sitting room. After a particularly dry, heaving cough, he rasped, "You're welcome for cleaning, by the way. Looks a lot better without the bloody syringes and moldy food, don't you think?"

When Sherlock realized that John was, in fact, in, and with a cold at that, he muttered a colorful curse to himself, frowning slightly. But then he donned a countenance of complete indifference, slipping past John and into his room, ignoring every other word John said and generally attempting not to care one way or another. He took out a shirt, deciding he can pack later, and took off his jacket. He pulled it on, the rust red sleeves soft and familiar. Clean. Not caring that John was there, Sherlock shed his trousers, revealing several stick marks, punctures along the veins at the inside of his knees from when he couldn't quite manage to get the needle into his right arm. He pulled on some new pants and trousers, not talking to John as he did so before putting his woolen coat back on and running a hand through his clean hair. He felt, admittedly, refreshed and even better with a strong high going. He debated again on packing a bag, but decided John would grow too suspicious if he seemed to plan for more than one night. He could possibly follow. "You're not my keeper, John," Sherlock uttered as he passed by the man, heading for the door of the flat and not hesitating to open it to leave.

John bolted for the door as fast as his legs would carry him, pushing it closed with his shoulder. "Sherlock, wait." He looked at the man's face but was unable to catch his eye; Sherlock seemed to be making a point of it to look anywhere but at John. He sighed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand; the damn thing wouldn't stop dripping. "You have two choices. You can stay here with me-give me _one_ day to get things fixed here. One day. Or, you can leave, go wherever it is you're planning to go, and I will call your brother right now and have him follow you. He's already got people set up. He knows you didn't come home last night." It was all a lie, of course, but part of John's army training had been how how to lie believably. Normally he didn't execute the skill as he despised lies in general, but this was different. This was for Sherlock's good and for his own. He knew that if he left and Sherlock wasn't any bed, Mycroft Holmes himself would show up at his work, demanding to know why his little brother wasn't cured. "One day," he repeated, really hoping that Sherlock went for that option. He just had a few questions, a few things that he wanted to get worked out. If he could get the answers to said questions, he _truly_ believed that Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft could take it from there.

The words that John were saying were beyond irritating to Sherlock, who simply wanted to get out of the flat and away from the doctor as soon as possible. But really, John was leaving him with few options here, though Sherlock had a distinct feeling that what John was saying about Mycroft was a lie. But he wouldn't put it past his brother, and he wouldn't put it past John to use Mycroft for something like this.

Despite how hard he had been avoiding John's gaze, Sherlock's eyes shifted to John's, the blue startlingly fierce. "I suggest you move out of that doorway," he growled, impatient and antsy. He didn't want to be in the flat anymore, and the longer he stayed out the more he realized it was for more than just because John was there. It was because the memories of John were there, taunting him. "If you'd take a look, you'd notice I'm wearing clean clothes and that I've showered. That I'm currently far better than you could ever make me. I don't want to be here, John. Not while you're here, and not after you leave. Now let me out, don't have Mycroft follow me. I don't want to be around you, though you can't seem to comprehend that well enough, and you can't fix me. I don't _want_ to be fixed. So leave me alone, John. Go back to wherever you're living and leave me alone. I'm not giving you one day because I can't take it." Sherlock waiting, silently trying to urge John away from the door so he could leave.

John's hands snaked up and he grabbed either side of Sherlock's collar, easily lifting the man and slamming him against the wall. "I'm not giving you a choice," he hissed, staring back into Sherlock's eyes, fighting as hard as he could to keep from blinking, to keep from breaking the contact for even a second. "Clean clothes and a shower mean _nothing. _The damage is in your head, Sherlock, and I'm going to find out why." He dropped Sherlock's shirt and the man fell the five inches John had lifted him back onto the ground with a huff. John did, however, keep one hand beside Sherlock's shoulder, pressing on it and his chest to keep him against the wall. Time for another army tactic, swallowing your pride and doing what the hell needs to be done. John lifted his free hand to brush through his hair as he sighed. The breath came out with a slight 'wheeze'. His chest was tight and he felt like he could go into another coughing fit at any second. He looked directly into Sherlock's eyes and said the two words that he'd been putting off, the two words he was sure Sherlock didn't even want to hear, the two words that he wasn't sure he even believed himself: "I'm sorry."

When John slammed Sherlock against the wall, the man winced, his body still not completely recovered from his near death experience, but he didn't speak a word, only stared back at John with lackluster eyes, his body dull and listless as he stared the man directly in the face. Really, it was a wonderful experience, being shoved against a wall and then being told he had brain damage. Truly, enlightening and pleasant, a real self-esteem booster. But Sherlock remained apathetic, not saying a word. That is, until John uttered an apology that didn't even sound close to truly sincere.

"...What?" Sherlock began in a voice that trembled slightly with a rising anger. He leaned off the wall some, closer to John. _"What_ did you just say to me? No." He brought his hands up and snagged them firmly in John's shirt, shoving the man back forcefully as he stepped away from the wall. "You, John Watson, do not just get to apologize. You do not have permission to apologize to me, I don't want to hear it. Especially one that is so poorly said. You're not even sorry, are you?" Sherlock with an expression of mild hurt, turned from John and headed to the door. "Two words aren't going to fix me, John." Sherlock pulled the door open and slipped out, walking quickly out of 221b, not caring if Mycroft and his goons were following. Not caring if John was. He wasn't going to head to Victor's for a while despite it, though, instead choosing to walk around to blow off some steam. An apology? It was nearly insulting that John thought that was going to do anything for him.

John didn't follow him. He couldn't. This whole thing was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. How long was he to stay here in an empty flat while his old flatmate wandered around on the streets and stayed with God-only-knows who? He was missing work, he was missing Mary. The whole thing was pointless, not worth his time. He wanted to leave, and he wanted to leave now. Sherlock was too stubborn, as was John, to lower his pride enough to change things around. What was done was done. Their relationship was fucked up, and truth be told, it was Sherlock's fault. John still remembered that day. He had been in a wonderful mood, getting off from a productive day at work and going to see Kelly. He had planned to come home and tell Sherlock about the ridiculous elderly woman he had seen in clinic, knowing that the detective would chuckle at the things she had said. None of that had happened. Instead, he had broken off his most meaningful friendship and left. Sherlock's fault entirely. He went back into the kitchen and began drinking his tea again, thinking to himself how selfish Sherlock was. He never apologized for ruining John's engagement; he didn't care that he'd done it in the slightest. And yet he here he was, telling John that he didn't 'get to' apologize. So it hadn't been entirely sincere, at least it was a marginal effort, one that John had never received from Sherlock.

Not knowing what else to do, John called Lestrade's number. The man answered on the third ring. "I'm done," John said firmly, trying to keep his cold out of his voice. "I've had enough. He's not listening, he's not /going/ to listen. There's nothing I can say or do that will make him change his mind. Me being here is no help to anybody, _especially_ him."

Sherlock ducked into an alleyway and dropped to the ground again, splaying his legs out on the ground as he watched people pass by on the sidewalk outside of the alley. There was nothing for him to do, so he was content to sit and judge those who passed by, picking out their differences and deducing things about each individual. It was mundane, trivial. And Sherlock realized just how little he had without John. That was why he had broken off the relationship between John and Kelly; John had made Sherlock dependent on him. John had taken Sherlock, helped him come out of his shell, and then was planning to _leave_ him that way. He couldn't take it. And it was worse when John just left because Sherlock took action to make him stay. It was far worse. And to just get close to the doctor again.. that was painful, and Sherlock could easily comprehend pain. Especially when it was so severe. He decided to text John, to attempt an apology he shouldn't have the opportunity to give. But as he checked his trouser pockets, he realized he had left the device in his other pair, and he knew that he needed it. With a sigh, Sherlock got up and began to head back to the flat, not looking forward to bumping into John again.

Meanwhile, Lestrade's phone rang, and as reluctant as he was to pick it up, it probably had to do with Sherlock. "I told you not to call me," he muttered instead of offering a basic hello, but John just went off saying how he was giving up on Sherlock. Lestrade frowned but sighed, shrugging to himself though John couldn't see it. "Yeah, well. You really can't blame him for being mad, can you?"

"_I_ can't blame _him_ for being mad?!" John said, unable to control the mixture of anger and shock that came through in his voice. "You're serious? _I_ can't blame _HIM_? Do you know what he did, Lestrade?" He reverted back to addressing Greg formally. After all, it seemed rather clear that they were no longer friends any more than he and Sherlock were. "He _ruined_ my engagement. Remember Kelly, that lovely woman I was seeing last month? I had asked her to marry me. She said yes. She was the first woman in _three_ bloody years to accept my relationship with Sherlock, accept that I would always put him first, before _anything_ else, and how did that bastard repay me? He drove her away. He told her that she couldn't satisfy me, that she wasn't what I was looking for in life, that she was _boring_ to me. She left me. Up and left me. Not only did Sherlock make her think that I thought she was a fool, but he made her think that he and I were in a relationship! A real one! The night she agreed to marry me was the best night of my entire bloody life, you hear? And he _destroyed_ that. So, yes, I _can_ blame him for being mad, because this is all his bloody fault!" He threw his phone down on the ground angrily, not bothering to hang up. He was confident Lestrade would do that for him. He turned around, eyes wide with anger, ready to punch or kick or throw something, and his eyes suddenly dropped on Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway.

That entire conversation, the ruinous behaviors that Sherlock was aware of but never confronted were just thrown into his face without John's knowledge. Until he turned around and locked eyes with the man, who stood there, staring at the floor, his head swimming with a strange mixture of emotions he couldn't entirely comprehend. What was he feeling? He wasn't used to this sort of sharpness in his chest, this pain. It was as though the sword of Damocles that hung over his head finally snapped from its thread and plummeted down. Sherlock was _selfish_. Sherlock was a _problem. _Sherlock was ruining John's life, his happiness, because.. because he was afraid of losing the man. And now, in retrospect, it all felt so incredibly pathetic.

He seemed to snap back into reality for a moment, opening his mouth and shutting it again, gaping as he tried to find words. "I.. um.." he cleared his throat, eyes remaining stuck to the floor as he raised a hand and just dropped it. His voice sounded hoarse as he spoke, and admittedly, it felt tight in an unfamiliar way. "I left my phone here.." he stated, but didn't find the strength to pick up his feet and walk into the flat. Instead, his expression switch from internal conflict to his usual gelid composure, glazed and icy, and he turned around. Phone be damned. He _hurt._

"Sherlock," John said quickly, dashing out of the sitting room and nearing Sherlock, pausing when he got to the top of the steps. "I'm sorry," he continued, voice softer. The words were clearly more authentic this time, but still held a high degree of anger along with them. "I mean what I said. All of it. I do blame you for what happened. I blame you for the state you're in now. I blame you for...well, everything. Because I honestly, hand to God, can't see how it's my fault. I'm sorry." He lifted his arm and scratched his head. It wasn't itching, but he needed to do something other than stand there awkwardly while Sherlock was, clearly, affected by his words. "But...if you want to come in...give me my one day...we can talk about it." He started down the steps, taking one at a time to near where Sherlock was standing at the bottom. "Is that why you've been acting so...so..." He didn't know how to finish the sentence. Different? Poorly? Strange? "Is that why you've stopped caring?" he decided on instead. "Is that why you went on the drugs? Did you feel guilty?" Doubtful that that was the reason, but he hoped that if Sherlock had an opener he would come clean.

It was so confusing, Sherlock's head was simply whirring every which way and he could hardly tell up from down. God, he felt nauseous. For a moment, he leaned against the wall, taking deliberately slow breaths as he tilted his head up and looked up at the ceiling, regaining his bearing for a moment. His head was so out of control, as though an earthquake had rocked the skeleton of what was left of his mind palace. He felt chaos thrumming through his entire self, but suddenly, he felt it and accepted it. It was his fault. He acted out of his own selfish desire, but when had he ever not done such? "John, just-" he shuddered out a sigh as he began down the steps again, much more composed now that he had taken a moment. "I.. Ruined..." He didn't feel guilt, per say. He was pleased he managed to drive a wedge between Kelly and John, he really was. But he was upset that it was his fault, that he was the reason his friendship with John had failed. But Sherlock couldn't cope without the man, he had no social capabilities. John could leave, get a job and have a new life. He deserved that. "Please don't speak to me," Sherlock said as he headed for the door quickly. "Just.. go home, John. You have nothing to do with me anymore, right? That's what you want."

Things were beginning to fall into place. John may not have been Sherlock Holmes, but he was an intelligent man, and very intuitive. He could read people. He could come assumptions. He could make educated guesses. John held his hands up in surrender as he went down the steps, one at a time, slowly. "Wait, wait." He felt like the biggest arsehole on the planet at that moment, he truly did. Sherlock didn't even know what he'd done. Sure, he knew that he had driven him and Kelly apart, but he hadn't understood the magnitude behind it, the way that it would affect John. It was as if Sherlock were a child, starting rumors about one child in order to ensure that they would have to fall back on him instead of their first choice of schoolyard love. He got to the bottom of the steps and went to the door as quickly as Sherlock had, letting his booted foot jut out to prevent Sherlock from opening it.

"Wait," John said again. He held his hand out slowly, tentatively, again thinking of how this whole situation was like dealing with a child. Speak softly. Gently. Remain calm. Be understanding. He knew how to deal with children; after all, he'd treated hundreds. "Come upstairs. Come upstairs and we'll talk. About you, about me, about the bloody solar system, I don't care what. You can do your drugs if you want; I won't stop you." That was a first-John never imagined him saying those words to anyone, especially Sherlock Holmes. Guilt was heavy on his shoulders, and the reason for that was because he could see the same thing happening to Sherlock. Sherlock felt guilty, and damn it all, John felt guilty for making him feel guilty.

Sherlock didn't understand this, not even a little bit. It was some strange, overwhelming feeling that was just dragging Sherlock further down and he had no idea how to navigate it. Could it be guilt? Maybe. It's possible, he supposed. He wasn't entirely devoid of emotion after all. And John.. John seemed like the most likely guide to pull him through this. Sherlock stared at the door, bringing a hand up to curl through the black tresses on his head, the length having gotten somewhat out of control. He turned away from the door and moved up the stairs, unfastening his coat to take it off, but not speaking. He hung it up, walking almost numbly to the couch, the words John shouted over the phone still echoing repeatedly in his head with a stinging clarity. Taking a seat, Sherlock eased into the couch, feeling more than uncomfortable in his own home. "Fine. We'll talk," Sherlock finally conceded in a quiet and cold voice.

John followed him up the steps, watching as Sherlock _finally_ sat down. He didn't know what to say, how to start the conversation. He knew that he could say the 'wrong' thing, and at the drop of a hat, Sherlock would be gone once again. Then again, that would make the whole thing easier. Dealing with Sherlock was a near-impossible task, whether he was clean or using. No wonder Lestrade and Mycroft called him to do it. That brought up interesting questions. Why had _John_ leaving sent Sherlock into such a downward spiral? What if Lestrade were killed in action, or Mycroft fell ill, or just became fed up with his younger brother's antics and refused to be associated with him any longer? Would Sherlock react the same way? As much as the man denied it, John knew that he cared about both Mycroft and Lestrade in his own way. Perhaps he had lost someone before, perhaps that was why he turned to drugs in the first place, not because he was 'bored'. Or maybe not-maybe John /had/ been the only one to ever make him turn to drugs. So many questions, but there was only one that John deemed to be a fitting first. "Want a cuppa?"

The first thing that John asked was if he wanted a culpa and for some unbeknownst reason, that was, to Sherlock, the funniest thing in the world. He began to chuckle, a laugh bubbling in his throat, but he swallowed it down, simply smiling as he ran a hand over his forehead. "I've not had a cuppa in over a month.." he mumbled quietly, almost sadly. He scrunched his nose slightly before scrubbing a hand down his face. "No. I don't want one. I'll just regret it later," Sherlock said as he drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around them, leaning to rest his chin against his knees. "Feel free to make a cuppa for yourself, though."

Sherlock's laugh had always been contagious to John. Maybe that was because he was the only one who could ever make Sherlock laugh, _truly_ laugh. He allowed himself a small smile as he sat on the opposite end of the couch, putting as much distance between them as he could. If Sherlock wasn't going to drink any, he wasn't either. He supposed it had been a rather silly suggestion anyway, since going into the kitchen and turning his back would allow the perfect time for Sherlock to escape had he so desired. Not that John was keeping him there...not by force, anyway. "What's so funny, then?" he asked, lacing his hands together and placing them in his lap, thumbs rolling over and under each other as he turned to look at Sherlock. It was good to see the man smile. John got the feeling he hadn't done so in a very long while.

"I.. I'm not entirely positive," Sherlock murmured as he dragged a hand over his mouth to wipe the smile off of his face. "I suppose.. It's so terribly domestic. Asking me if I wanted tea.. And..." There was that sharp aching in his chest again as he thought about it, realizing how they weren't domestic anymore, how they weren't even friends. He felt chilly very suddenly, a shiver passing along his spine as any trace of happiness evaporated from his expression as he thought about how unfunny it was that John had asked him for tea. Something so familiar had no place in his life any longer. "But that's.. It's off topic, I suppose. Let's have our talk. Then I'm going to leave," Sherlock stated firmly, back to his usual demeanor as his gaze moved to John's.

John nodded, his own smile falling as Sherlock's did. "S'all right. You look like you needed a good laugh, even if it _was_ at my expense." He cocked his head thoughtfully from side to side, pretending to be counting off memories in his head. "Then again, I do believe most of the times you laughed _were_ at my expense." Another smile in Sherlock's direction. John leaned back against the couch, crossing one of his legs over the other. He didn't know_ what _he was doing. He was a doctor, not a counselor. He told people their physical ailments and how to treat them. He didn't know exactly how to delve into a person's psyche, their innermost thoughts and feelings, especially when it was Sherlock Holmes, a man who was like no other. "So, um...we should start at the beginning then, I suppose? As good a place as any...um..." He trailed off and his lips curved downwards into a deep frown. There was only one word to describe this-disastrous. If it had've been one of his patients, he could have bullshit his way through the conversation. Things with Sherlock were so uncomfortable, so tense, that he had not a clue of what to do.

Sherlock watched the nervousness in John's expression, seeing how incredibly uncomfortable he was as he trailed off, not even asking Sherlock a question. It was obvious that he was having a hard time, but Sherlock was socially inept, and had no idea how to start anything himself. He didn't really have anything to say to John, not now. Not ever. There was nothing left except the answers to John's questions. "You need to relax, John," Sherlock said softly as he released his arms from around his legs, folding his legs beneath himself instead. He tried to ease back into the chair he was sitting in, but no matter how comfortable it may have been, he felt tense with John, especially knowing the man was equally stressed about this. "I don't think we're going to get very far at this rate.. Just ask what you need to ask and I'll get out of your hair."

"I can't relax. How can you tell me to relax? You're not even relaxed." John leaned forward until his head was nearly between his knees. His hands ran through his dirty blonde hair as he groaned. "Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. I have three people blaming me for this." He motioned with one hand, not bothering to look up, at the flat, then flicked it in Sherlock's direction. "Blaming me for what's happened to you. I know you don't know how it feels to be guilty, but I'm here to tell you that it feels downright shitty, yeah?"

"Yes, I get it," Sherlock mumbled. "I'll shift the blame to me if that eases your conscience.. Alright? I'll be sure to let everyone know it's my fault. You're right." Sherlock moved to stand, the tightness between his shoulders increasing to a nearly unbearable point. He cleared his throat awkwardly as he headed to his bedroom, grabbing his phone and checking it. A couple of texts from Victor, but nothing important. Sherlock walked back out into the sitting room, stopping at the coat rack to pick up his jacket. "If that's all, I'm going to leave now, because I'm pretty sure we've established everything that needed to be said."

John stood up and rubbed his hands over his eyes. "You're an idiot. I'm trying to fucking apologize." He pointed at the couch again, and his hand was trembling from frustration. Sherlock was difficult. He was pigheaded. He was an addict. He was childish. He was annoying. He was insufferable. And here John was, trying to apologize to him, and he wasn't even sure why. If Sherlock felt he was sorry, truly sorry, then perhaps it would be enough for him to move on, for him to get off the drugs and go back to fighting crimes. John would finally have this off his conscious. Maybe they could even remain on civil terms, communicating via e-mail or text message about Sherlock's most intriguing cases or John's ludicrous patients at the surgery. John knew for sure, though, that they would never be like they were before. That ship had sailed long ago.

Hesitant, Sherlock hovered by the door, not returning to the couch. It was easy to see the way John trembled with some frustration at the situation at hand, Sherlock well aware that he was being difficult for the man. "You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for, remember?" Sherlock said with a shrug as he huddled tightly into his coat as if he could hide his frail body within its canvas warmth. It was at times like this that he missed his scarf. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have done something such as break you and Kelly up for such selfish reasons, I understand that now. Though, to be honest, I'm not sorry, and neither should you be because evidently, you've done no wrong. So I should leave. Before I manage to somehow ruin whatever life you've made for yourself while you're around me."

John walked over to Sherlock, hands on his hips, looking around the flat as if he were remembering each and every memory that he had from the place. To be honest, he was. He and Sherlock doing experiments together. Eating Chinese take-out and watching crap telly. John listening to him play the violin when he'd composed a new piece. John cleaning up after said experiments. Throwing away the take-out containers and turning off the television after Sherlock had fallen asleep in his chair. Waking up at 2 in the morning when Sherlock was awake, thinking, and was using the instrument as an escape. "I don't know if you're being serious or not," John said to the other man, letting his eyes linger on the skull that was still sitting on the fireplace mantle. "But I do appreciate what you said. That you understand why what you did was wrong, and that you...that you know you were at fault. Can I ask one question, though?" Another way of effectively dealing with children-making them feel like they were in control. Then again, Sherlock probably felt that already, anyway. He did love to be the dominant force in the room, any room.

Sherlock could sense the way that John was being cautious with his wording, walking on eggshells around Sherlock throughout the conversation. It was somewhat irritating, but he supposed he'd humor the man, seeing how there was little chance they'd encounter each other again after this. He jammed a hand in his pocket as he recalled the drugs that rested there, that aching want in his head, the desire to scrub things out a bit, accelerate his mind, focus on something else. But not in front of John. "If you're going to ask me a question, I'd appreciate it if you made it quick," Sherlock stated as though he were the busiest man in the world, hand already waiting on the doorknob as his eyes stared intensely into John's before shifting away to the hole in the wall again. John owed him for the door, the hole, his scarf... Not that Sherlock would enforce payment. Sherlock had done plenty of damage of his own. "I'm staying with a friend and he's expecting me. And I don't want to stay here."

"Fair enough," John said with a curt nod. He put on his most stoic face, one that had served him well in the army. Men got shot around him; his own friends lying there bleeding, crying out to him for help, but he hadn't been able to stop. The enemy advanced on him and his squadron, Afghani after Afghani coming out of the brush, machine guns going off, planes overhead, people shouting and cursing, dropping rank and calling out to him, "John! John!" as their heads were blown off, limbs ripped free of their bodies, bullets shot directly through their hearts...

John inhaled suddenly, gasping, and his eyes snapped open. He hadn't...when had he shut his eyes? His heart was racing and a thin line of sweat was creeping out of the pores along his hairline. Sherlock was standing there, staring at him intently, with furrowed eyebrows and a frown. John lifted one of his hands to cover his eyes and groaned. A flashback. It had been three years since he'd had one of those. He'd had nightmares, yes, but a waking flashback...that hadn't happened since he'd met Sherlock. Ironically, it happened again after a month of not seeing the man. His question was forgotten. He shook his head and leaned against the wall, moving his hand up to wipe the sweat from his brow. "Sorry," he said quietly, still holding his head in his hand. "You...You go. Have fun with your friend." His pride was as great as Sherlock's, and he had no interest in the man seeing him in this state.

When John's eyes slowly slid shut, Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, his eyes narrowed. He couldn't quite tell what the man was doing, if this was supposed to inspire something in Sherlock in response. But when the man began to sweat, his breathing beginning to resemble that of bellows, he began to understand that this was no game. No, something was wrong with John. Suddenly, the man's eyes snapped open and it was as though he had just come to from a coma, lost and uncertain as his eyes darted about. Then the groan, and the way his body seemed to crumple in on himself as he slunk down against the wall. Sherlock's heart clenched, and he wondered if it was, perhaps, a flashback. It seemed to be something similar.

He had never been good at taking care of others. To be honest, Sherlock knew himself to be downright foul at it. But this was different, this was John and although John was a tough man, a proud soldier, he was also a creature of comfort. So instead of leaving, Sherlock stepped up to the man and took him by the shoulders, squeezing them briefly before he pulled John forth against his chest, wrapping his arms around the man in an attempt to soothe him. He kept the hug loose, not wanting the doctor to feel trapped. Despite everything, John's wellness was still a first priority to Sherlock.

John's body tensed when he felt Sherlock's arms around him. He hadn't been expecting it. At all. Sherlock rarely touched him, rarely comforted him, in the three years they had known each other. The only time he had betrayed any real emotion was at the pool, when he had dropped to his knees in front of John, asking if he was okay, tearing the bomb-laden jacket off at break-neck speed. His hands had been shaking, John remembered. Sherlock had been worried about him. "Sherlock," he said, so softly that he could barely even hear himself, "what are you doing?" Despite the question-or perhaps because of it-John felt his own arms wrapping around the skeletal man. Even through the wool jacket, John could feel the bumps of his spine. He was so skinny, way too skinny to be considered 'all right' on any level. Besides hugging Sherlock back, John didn't budge. He was afraid to move, in case Sherlock would dash out of the flat and not be seen nor heard from again. Sherlock hadn't apologized, but he had admitted that what he did was wrong, and that spoke volumes. The hug, such as it was, said the rest.

"I'm... attempting to ease your mental ailing through physical comfort," Sherlock explained quietly. "I.. I wanted to be certain you were.. alright.." Sherlock trailed off slightly when he felt the arms of the other man wrap around his body, the hands warm and familiar, and unlike before not the least bit unwelcome now. Why did it feel so.. correct? Sherlock had never been comfortable when it came to such touches from anyone that long ago, he no longer accepted such affection. He never gave John a chance to hug him. But this.. Sherlock never felt more at peace than he did then as John held to him without moving, giving Sherlock an opportunity to adjust to the unfamiliarity of the contact. After a moment, however, the man's pale and slender hands began to run along John's back, attempting further still to soothe the man as he held him close. "..Just let me know when you feel better," Sherlock murmured.

So Sherlock Holmes did have a heart. And he was willing to do things to show it, if not for anyone else, than for John, the man he had claimed to hate, to not need, to want nothing to do with, to no longer care about. John pulled away from the hug-after all, after a minute it began to get...well, to a point that was uncomfortable for him and probably, he assumed, for Sherlock as well. He moved his arms to rest on Sherlock's biceps. They were skinny, no longer containing anything but skin and bone. The muscle had atrophied, what little fat was there had been burnt away. "Thank you," he said, lifting his head to look into Sherlock's bloodshot eyes. "That was very..." He almost finished with 'good', as it was a bit of an inside joke between them, but didn't care for how sexual it sounded. "That was a very nice thing you did," he decided upon instead. "But, Sherlock...a hug isn't going to make me feel better. The only thing that will make me feel better is helping you get healthy." Before Sherlock could protest-which John knew he would-he went on. "I'm not doing it for Mary. I'm not doing it for Lestrade. I'm not doing it for Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and I'm not doing it for myself. I'm doing it for you." A strong finish, and he had meant every word.

When John pulled out of the hug, Sherlock admittedly felt somewhat disappointed, knowing that it wasn't as though he'd have the opportunity to do such again. It was a nice feeling, something that was equally comforting to Sherlock and above all, something warm and kind that Sherlock hadn't experienced often before. But then-John said it wasn't going to make him feel any better. That the only thing that would make him feel better is.. Well, for Sherlock to feel worse. And then to say he was doing it for /Sherlock/, that was the worst. "John, allow me to clarify this now," Sherlock said as he pulled away from John's arms, away from his hold entirely, suddenly feeling very much uncomfortable. "I don't want to get healthy. As soon as you're gone, I'm going to become unhealthy again, you know it's true and so do I and so sobering up is really a waste of time. It's a vicious circle, John. And I'm stopping it here, because it _hurts._ And I would rather overdose than..." he trailed off. What could he say? Than feeling the way his heart sealed up when John left? The man wouldn't buy it. The way his mind crumbled to dust, aching in his head? Somehow, Sherlock didn't think John would believe it possible. Every moment Sherlock spent with John forced him to open up more and more, and the warmer he became, the longer it took to freeze back over and the harder it was to want to thaw. John's leaving-his abandonment of Sherlock hurt too much. And the moment he was sober again, the moment he was healthy, John would leave. And it would all just fold into nothing. He sighed and shook his head heading for the door and pulling it open.

"What hurts?" John called after Sherlock. "And you'd rather overdose than what? You have to talk, Sherlock. Nothing is going to change if you don't do something, if you don't /say/ something." His words were enough to stall Sherlock, so John walked over to him and pushed the door shut. "Look at me," he said, and he waited until Sherlock, reluctantly, did so to continue. The man looked sad. That was the only way John could think to describe it, even though he had never seen Sherlock Holmes sad before. Bored, yes. Disappointed, often. Annoyed. Angry. Pleased. Amused. But never sad. He had one final question, and once he got the answer, once he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Sherlock was telling the truth, John would let him go to his dealers, go to his friend's, go to wherever it was that he was planning to go. "I have to tell you something. Whether you believe it or not...hell, I didn't even want to believe it...but it's completely, one-hundred percent true. When I came back to London...I was so alone. I had nobody. I had nothing. I had no reason to live. Then I met you, and you saved my life. I truly believe that. And...and I owe you so much." He paused, letting his words sink into Sherlock's mind, giving him time to absorb them. "But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more answer, Sherlock, for me." He paused again, licking his lips, which had suddenly become bone dry. "Did you do this because of me? Because of what I said, because I left? Is that what happened that made you...change?"

For a long moment, Sherlock said nothing, not sure that he could come up with the words that were necessary in this situation. In some ways, yes, in some ways, no. It was always an odd mix of the two with the detective, never really just one or the other. And because of this, Sherlock couldn't quite answer with either or without it being at least partially a lie. So he took a breath, clearing his throat as he sought an explanation. "Everything I did, John, was because you were going to leave. Everything. From destroying what you and Kelly had to starting to smoke. Eventually, my efforts came to naught, and I lost and I was lost, as I tend to be without my blogger." He paused. "Though I suppose that stopped too. Out of desperation, I began to turn to drugs again, hoping it would spur you to return here. It didn't. And then.." Sherlock gave a slight shrug as he delved his hands into his pockets. "Then it became the only thing that mattered. I didn't think you'd come back. I figured you to have hated me. So I did this because I was desperate to get you here," he explained, his eyes dropping to the floor before returning to John's. "Now, I want you to leave. And no matter what you hear, I don't want you to come back." Sherlock pushed past John, taking the doorknob and pulling the door open, slipping his bony form out of the flat to head down to Victor's.

John didn't go after him. Sherlock's words, his unabashed honesty, had surprised him. He'd been expecting a simple "Yes" or "No" or "None of your business". Even though John had his answer, he didn't feel relieved like he thought he would. Now he knew that he was, however indirectly, responsible for the downward spiral Sherlock was taking, had taken. He didn't know how to fix it. Hell, he didn't know if he _could_ fix it. He stood motionlessly as the detective's words swirled around in his head, until his phone vibrated inside his trouser pocket. Mary, asking him how things were going. He was both ashamed and surprised to realize that he had hardly thought about her since arriving back in London. He wrote her back, letting her know that it was a trying experience and he would tell her more later. He wasn't in the mood to talk to anybody. He knew Sherlock wouldn't be home for at least a day, and he had no interest in sitting around the flat waiting for him. He scribbled a note and put it on the on the wall next to the hole he'd made a month ago - Text me JW - and left the flat, walking to the nearest cheap motel. Sherlock wouldn't text him, and he wouldn't text Sherlock. He'd hang around London for another day or two, three at the most, check on Sherlock before he left, making one more attempt to get him to try sobriety, and then he would leave. The hotel room was small and dirty, but it would be sufficient for two days. The first thing he did was take a shower, then wrapped a clean towel around his waist and sat on the bed. He was sick of wearing the same outfit. The clothes were damp with sweat and beginning to smell. Even Sherlock smelled better than he did today.


	6. Chapter 6

**Triggers: Character death, drug use, violence. Just a forewarning! As always, thanks to everyone who leaves feedback, and we hope you enjoy!**

Once he left the flat, Sherlock felt incredibly relieved, his muscles relaxing and tension that he didn't know he had releasing from his body. It felt good. It felt even better when he lifted some man's wallet and found enough money for the cab fare back to Victor's. The place was a momentary safe haven for him. Food, shelter, drugs and company. And at the moment, there was nothing that he craved more than that. Once in the cab, Sherlock discreetly began to take hits of his cocaine, shuddering his delight when the high began to hit and glaring at the cabby when he shot Sherlock a dirty look through the rear-view mirror. Before long, however, he was handing over cab fare (something the driver was obviously surprised to see paid in full) and slipping out from the vehicle, stumbling slightly as he closed the door.

He straightened himself out some, running a hand over his shirt and adjusting his clothes before going to Victor's door and letting himself in. Sherlock settled down on the couch after giving Victor a brief greeting. A moment later, the man came into the room with a cup of tea for Sherlock and one for himself. As Vic took a seat beside the detective, he watched with bemused eyes as the man dressed his tea with a lacing of cocaine. The night progressed in a very repetitive manner. The two sat side by side, Sherlock frequently dosing up while Victor remained coldly sober, clearly not one to mess with the product he sold. Sherlock was lost in a haze a high and illness, but that didn't mean he didn't feel the warm hand sliding along his thigh, much to his discomfort. "Quit it," he muttered in a strange slur as he pushed Victor's hand away, though it returned a moment later.

"Come on," Victor purred, as he leaned closer to Sherlock. "You didn't think you were staying here for free, now did you?"

All at once, sirens went off in Sherlock's head, but his thoughts were too muddled to think of a sensible solution. He simply bristled for a moment, tolerating the light touches as he pondered what John would have thought if he saw this right now.

"You owe me, Sherlock," Victor said hoarsely. boldly licking Sherlock's earlobe. "You know I've wanted you since I first clapped eyes on 'ya. I've let you kip here many a night, let you drink my tea, eat my food, and what do I have to show for it? Nothin'." His hand slid further up Sherlock's thigh and squeezed firmly. The detective was attractive, there was absolutely no denying that. Tall, lean, with the most unusual eyes, thin, kissable lips, soft hair...he wanted everything from him, he wanted to do everything _with_ him. He was already getting aroused and Sherlock hadn't done anything, nothing but push his hand away from his thigh.

At his motel, John, of course, had no idea of the trials Sherlock was going through. He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower, sighing with relief as the warm water rushed over his body. When he was finished, he wrapped a towel around his waist and went to sit on his motel bed. It creaked when he sat down; the mattress wasn't comfortable and the blankets were dirty and rough. He briefly considered texting Sherlock, but his pride kept him from it. Sherlock didn't want his help. John wanted to go home. Not to Baker Street, but to the Isle of Man_. That _ was his home now. He texted Mary, telling her simply 'I miss you' and then got under the covers of his bed, flipping the light off and closing his eyes.

When Victor's tongue contacted his earlobe, Sherlock shuddered visibly, but not in pleasure. Just disgust. Discomfort. He moved his hand to Victor's chest, shoving him roughly back as he ignored the man's words, trying very hard to dismiss the fact that Victor, whom he'd known since Uni, was attempting to take advantage of him. I mean, sure. The man wasn't entirely aware of just how vulnerable Sherlock felt, nor how hard the man was willing to fight to protect his vulnerability. Sherlock moved away from Victor, his heart pounding in mild panic. "I asked you to lay off, Victor. I'm not interested in you that way," Sherlock grumbled, trying to solidify that his temple of a body was not open to him. In an attempt to perhaps deter Victor, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, a position that was often recognized for being defensive in nature, making a shield of his arms as he glared at the man he truly wanted to consider as his friend.

Victor immediately leaned in, putting his hand over Sherlock's arms and licking his cheek. "C'mon, mate. Are you even interested in _anyone_ in _any_ way? I've known you for years and you haven't given the slightest indicator of whether you go for men or girls...which is it?" His erection was throbbing inside his pants and he moved his hand further to Sherlock's crotch, cupping it through his trousers. The man wasn't hard, but he wasn't deterred by that. He was a master of seduction, making men and women over the years fall into his charms. "Give us a kiss. Just one. If you don't like it, I'll back off...maybe. You do owe me, you know that, right?"

The man's hand wrapped around his flaccid member and the way his tongue, warm and wet and disturbing ran over his cheek made Sherlock too uncomfortable for words. He brought his hands down from where he crossed them, grabbing Victor's wrist and fighting him to move his hand away as he shoved the man back forcefully again. Sherlock's eyes glanced down and caught sight of the tumid member as it battled against the front of his trousers. "Victor, stop!" Sherlock said in a more authoritative tone as he shoved him and kept Victor at arm's length. He had no idea how to quell a man who was sexually hungry, Sherlock hadn't any experience in that field. But, perhaps, giving an inch was the best way to get him to settle down some. "If I compromise and kiss you, you have to move to the other side of the couch. And not touch me," Sherlock said as a sort of ultimatum, giving Victor his best glare, though it was naturalized somewhat by the influence of drugs.

"Fine," Victor said eagerly, automatically thinking to himself of how he had won Sherlock over. Give a man an inch and he'll want more. Simple as that. He put his hands on Sherlock's face, pulling him forward roughly. "C'mon, love." He pressed his lips to Sherlock's, roughly, and eagerly licked his thin lips before plunging his tongue inside his mouth. He didn't wait for permission, he didn't _ask _for permission. Sherlock was high as a kite and Victor fully intended to take advantage of that. One hand moved to Sherlock's hair, gripping a fistful of the curls, while the other moved to his collar and began to toy with the buttons. Sherlock's pale skin was revealed as Victor tore the shirt suddenly, sending a few buttons flying. He felt Sherlock's body tense underneath him, but he didn't stop. His tongue ran over Sherlock's teeth, his gums, his own tongue, and then he used his own tongue to push the man's bottom lip into his mouth so he could suck on it.

When Sherlock was pulled into the kiss, he expected it to be brief and simple, but no such luck. His judgment proved failing when Victor practically assailed his mouth, tongue invading like an unwelcome visitor with their foot in the door, slowly pushing its way into Sherlock's mouth no matter how much Sherlock attempted to protest it. Before long, Victor had full reign, his tongue probing the untouched depths of Sherlock's warm mouth as Sherlock tried to identify the intense mixture of panic and, maybe, fear. What was this? Why did he hate how this felt so much? It was harder to think of a reason when Victor's hand knotted in Sherlock's hair, his other breaking into Sherlock's shirt. Finally, it clicked and Sherlock figured it out. He felt _violated_. When that realization hit, he brought his hands up and broke the kiss with a fierce shove, following the movement as he brought a hand back and slammed a tight fist against Victor's jaw with a heavy crack. "Don't touch me!" he shouted furiously as he wiped his mouth with his other hand.

Victor stumbled off the couch, instantly thrown onto his arse on the ground. His jaw was throbbing

and felt out of line with the rest of his face; pain immediately began radiating from the area and he winced, which only caused him to hurt more. "You fucking ungrateful prat!" He stood up and glared right back at Sherlock, staring down at the coked-up, skeletal figure. "Who the hell do you think you are? What gives you the right to fucking hit me like that?" He bent down and grabbed the collar of Sherlock's shirt, yanking him up and pushing him against the wall forcefully. "I ought to teach you some manners, Sherlock. You look like you could use a good lesson." Victor had always had an anger management problem, plus the temper of a raging Spanish bull. "You think you're better than me because you're a bloody detective? You're a fucking drug addict! You're nothin'!" He dropped Sherlock's shirt just before delivering a punch of his own directly to Sherlock's right eye. It wouldn't be long before the area started to darken into a black and blue bruise.

He didn't listen to a word out of Victor's mouth once he was slammed against the wall, only trying to struggle against the man's strong grip with struggling hands, trembling slightly as he tried so hard to get away from Victor. Sherlock gave a twist to no avail, and the next thing he knew, a blow, heavy and bruising, was delivered directly upon his eye, creating a unique stinging sharpness in his cheekbone that soon radiated along the majority of his face. Once it set in that he had, in fact, been struck by Victor, things began to happen in a blurry slow motion, the fearsome power of adrenaline pulsing through Sherlock, making his heart pound. At times, Sherlock's vision blacked in flashes, but he recalled very clearly jarring a knee sharply between Victor's legs, causing the man's grip to loosen. Sherlock's head pounded, swam, as though the insides of his head were being sloshed around, battering every which side as though a storm were at bay. Once the hold had loosened enough, Sherlock wrenched himself from it, swinging another punch, the flat of his knuckled hand slamming against Victor's ear as Sherlock brought around his other hand for round two, hitting Victor hard in the cheek.

Victor's head was reeling as he dropped down, flat on his back. He looked at Sherlock and could see one, two, three, four of the man, all blurry. The room was spinning and he felt like he was going to be sick. Sherlock was staring down at him with an expression of purge rage etched on his face. "Sher-Sherlock," Victor stuttered, trying to sit up. His head spun too violently and the nausea took a turn for the worst. He began dry-heaving, still trying to lift himself up so that he could stand and be eye-level with the man. His crotch was aching and the pain traveled down his legs and up into his abdomen. "Y-You wouldn't k-kill me...you're a detective; you-you can't kill s-someone." He didn't know if he was trying to convince himself or Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were wide, full of cocaine-fueled hate and anger, and Victor actually feared for his life.

Every attempt Victor made to rise back up to Sherlock's level, the anger in the detective only served to double, triple.. Before long, Sherlock swung his leg around, delivering a powerful kick to the side of Victor's head, the contact sharp and strong. Sherlock dropped down to Victor's level, seizing the front of his shirt in anger. "I'm a _consulting_ detective," he growled, though the man looked very nearly unconscious, maybe deafened by the blows to his ear. "I can do whatever I _want_." He punctuated it with a blow to the man's face, Victor's nose giving a crunch beneath his fist as Sherlock pulled back and delivered two more blows to the man's face before breathing heavily and releasing him.

Victor's body lay lifeless on the ground. After the kick to his head, he had gone, nice and easy. Blood was pouring from his ear, his nose, and his skin would soon go from peach-colored to pale with various red or blue spots from Sherlock's abuse. His eyes had drifted shut in surrender before the fatal blow. Ironically, the only other person Sherlock had ever trusted, had ever stayed with, had ever relied on in any form, was also lying down, eyes shut, in his hotel room. John hadn't expected that he would sleep any, but the exhaustion had finally caught up with him and he was deep in REM sleep dreaming of his days as a soldier. Ironically enough, when he heard someone calling his name, he ran over to the wounded soldier, only to find that it was Sherlock calling out to him, asking for his help. He wasn't bleeding; he wasn't wounded...John kept screaming, what do you want from me?! What do you want?! And Sherlock kept repeating, help me John_, help me._ John finally woke, body jerking in his bed as he was pulled from sleep. Sweat was dripping down his face. His heart was racing and he was panting. He remembered the dream vividly. With a shaky sigh John got out of bed and went to the minibar, thankful that the cheap motel even offered one. He picked whisky and started downing the bottle swallow after biting swallow.

Sherlock had gotten up and scrambled back when he had finished with Victor, leaning against a wall and heaving deeply, his eyes half lidded and hazed with the rush of cocaine, heroin and the endorphins that pulsed in a dangerous cocktail in his bloodstream. He muttered a couple of expletives beneath his breath as he raised his hands to look at the knuckles, bloodied with Victor's crimson hue, intimidating and stalwart in appearance. Once he settled down some, the realization that Victor was seriously injured set in and he crawled over to the man, expecting short breathy movements of the chest, not expecting a cadaver. When he realized that Victor wasn't breathing, that his heart wasn't beating, Sherlock's blood chilled to ice. _He killed Victor._ Any sense of pride that he had saved himself was instantly subdued by intense fear, amplified by the intense sensation of the drugs still in his system and how those drugs annihilated all sensible thought. He had enough sense, however, not to call Lestrade. Instead, he sent a text to the only man he had ever truly trusted, hands trembling fearfully as he typed it out.

John, I need your help. SH

John was sitting at the desk in the motel room, nearly finished with the bottle of whisky. It was the most he'd drunk in a long while, and he didn't intend to do so again, but tonight was different. He'd needed an escape, a way to make him forget about things, just for a while. Of course he didn't actually forget about Sherlock-being drunk brought back memories that he hadn't thought about in a while. Them playing Cluedo together. Them trying to cook Mrs. Hudson Christmas dinner (a huge disaster). Going through all the stacks of books during The Blind Banker case and searching for any book that two very different men had owned. His head was fuzzy but he was still able to function without much effort. John heard his phone beep from the nightstand. He stood, putting a hand on his head as his body had to fight to keep him standing upright and not stumbling. He had gotten up too quickly, no doubt about that. He went and checked his texts, expecting the message to be from Mary, but it wasn't. Sherlock.

That's been established already, I think. What made you change your mind? JW

Nervously, Sherlock stared down at the text, but didn't immediately respond. His pale eyes shifted back to the body beside him that was rapidly growing colder and colder. Something pained seized at his heart and he stood, taking his phone with him as he went into Victor's bedroom and shut the door, locking it so he didn't have to see what he had done. He texted with bloody hands.

That's not what I need help with. SH

After sending the reply, Sherlock hesitated, staring blankly at the screen as he considered the fact that none of this, absolutely none of this would have happened if he hadn't been on the drugs. If he hadn't been so weak as to need a coping mechanism. He was supposed to be stone. Cold stone, unbreakable and sturdy. But he was far weaker than he thought. And the drugs didn't help.

Though I suppose help getting clean may be beneficial to my future. SH

Sherlock's finally statement helped to sober John up. Thankfully for both men the alcohol had been a low-proof. It was enough to make him feel warm and like his brain was made of cotton, but not enough make him pass out or forget who he was. Sherlock needed help, he admitted to it, but then it wasn't the drugs...admitting that he may be interested later was enough to make John smile a little, although t didn't last long when he realized that something had to be seriously wrong for him to be contacting John. He didn't waste time with texting, merely pressed 'dial' on his phone, holding the phone against his ear as he waited for Sherlock to answer.

When the screen flashed again in social notification, Sherlock looked at it, only to see it was a phone call coming in. Immediately, he tried to remember proper words to use to answer the phone, but none sprang to mind. He couldn't, however, just leave John there. So he picked up, heart pounding again and his eyes owlish as he sat down on Victor's bed. "...John," he mumbled after a moment, a twinge of some discordant emotion warbling his voice some. "I'm sorry, I..." He stopped speaking, no longer knowing what to say. He gaped his mouth and shut it multiple times, trying to summon something, anything to say. But nothing came and so he just listened.

The first thing John noticed was how Sherlock sounded terrified. His voice was soft, weak, and he sounded meek. "Yeah, it's me," John spoke into the phone. Thankfully his voice wasn't slurring; thank _God_ for that. "What happened? Are you okay? Where are you?" Sherlock wasn't going to give up the information on his own; the man seemed to be in shock. Perhaps he had been hurt. Physical shock, emotional shock, neither was conducive to the phone call. He waited a moment for Sherlock to respond, but he did. "Sherlock, where are you?" He repeated. "Are you hurt?"

For yet another long pause, Sherlock said nothing, the emptiness in the conversation letting him realize just how loud the ringing in his ears was getting, tinnitus in full reign. "..Not over the phone. I've.." he paused and shuddered an uncertain sigh. "I've been struck, but it's really... nothing. I'll text you the-" Sherlock had to stop when his throat tightened beyond the point of getting a word in edgewise, the swollen knot of nerves overwhelming and pained. It took a while for it to settle down. "I'll text you the address," Sherlock said quickly before hanging up the phone. He sent John the promised text before going out of Victor's bedroom. He didn't look at the body, refused to as he left the flat and sat down outside, curling into a tight ball while he waited for John. A patina of mottled amaranthine bruising began to swell over Sherlock's face, the result of Victor's powerful punch.

"Yeah, okay," John said, rubbing his hand over his face as he felt beads of sweat beginning to form over his brow. "I'll get a cab and be there soon, all right?" He slipped his phone back into his pocket as he went into his luggage, looking for any type of medical supplies he could take with him. He had no idea where Sherlock was, be it a park, an alley, someone's home. He had nothing useful to bring but he grabbed some towels and washcloths from the bathroom along with the Vicodin he kept for his shoulder. He left the hotel quickly and got his phone back out to check the address-it was only a few blocks from where he was; instead of hailing a cab, he tucked the towels under his arm and took off at a brisk run. The cold air-he had forgotten his jacket, dammit. Oh well, he already had a cold from the previous morning of looking for Sherlock-helped to sober him up, helped him to stop dripping sweat down the bridge of his nose. He took a quick left turn, dashing down another street before spinning around a corner. This was the road, and the flat he was looking for...there. John took the steps two at a time and pounded on the door to the home. "Sherlock, it's me! Let me in!"

John was there. John was there outside and suddenly, Sherlock felt as though bringing him here was a very, very bad idea. He didn't want John to see the body, didn't want him to see what he had done. It was so terrible. To be honest, Sherlock felt little over the fact that Victor was dead, but he felt more letting his moral compass shift direction just slightly, the polarity changing as he took more and more drugs. He shook his head, snapping back to reality as he opened the door and slipped outside, biting his lip slightly as he did so. "John, I.." he began, leaning against the door so the man couldn't get in. "...I've done something horrendous and I don't know what to do.."

John's brow furrowed. Something horrendous-that could mean any number of things. Rape. Murder. Kidnapping. Theft. Sherlock's face was as white as snow and he was very obviously intoxicated. John thought it was his imagination at first, or the alcohol in his body, but he blinked a few times and narrowed his eyes, leaning in ever so slightly. Sherlock was trembling. From head to toe, his body was shaking. John saw the bruise forming around his eye and his dark maroon shirt had buttons missing. Part of the color had been torn off. John put his hand on the man's shoulder, just enough to show him that he was there to help, not place blame, not accuse. Just to help. "It's all right. It's all right, Sherlock, do you hear? The first thing you have to do is tell me what happened. Are _you_ okay?"

It was so unfamiliar to Sherlock, being touched, and honestly after everything that had just occurred with Victor, he wanted anything but to be touched. He reached a hand up to push John's hand away, not trying to be insulting, just needing his space for the time being when he realized the crimson-turned-rust blood was still painted on his hands, not dry and almost flaky, forming gory layers of color over his knuckles and fingertips. His eyes looked to John's with a panicked gleam and he dropped his hand, moving to hide them both behind himself the way a child hides away a stolen sweet. As soon as he did, the torn front of his shirt opened to reveal the pasty pale beneath, his buttons having been broken in Victor's assault. Sherlock quickly brought his hands back to pull the edges together, his heart pounding as he found no words coming to his mouth, the entirety of his tongue dry as though he'd been sucking on cotton. "John, I.." he couldn't bring himself to say more as he began to shrink a bit away from the man. Was calling him a mistake? Maybe Sherlock could just duck back inside, lock John out in many senses. John hadn't changed since he left Sherlock save for being happier, but how would he think of him for this?

John wasn't sure how to react to the state Sherlock was in. He was acting meek and frightened, which John had only seen once before, when they went to Baskerville and Sherlock had been certain he'd seen some type of evil super-dog. Even then, Sherlock had maintained his 'fuck-off-I'm-fine' attitude, but that was nowhere to be found here. Then, he'd been frightened but still prideful, still arrogant. Now...he couldn't even find the courage to form words. John looked on as Sherlock pulled his shirt together and he found himself wondering why that was an issue. Sherlock often had his shirt unbuttoned a bit, but now the man seemed uncomfortable that that was the case. The blood on his hands, that was worrisome, obviously. John let his hands discreetly roam over Sherlock's body, searching for any other injuries-his eye was turning black and blue, but beyond that, nothing that he could see. The blood wasn't his, then. John balled his hands into fists and let them slip inside his pants pockets. Sherlock, as he had just shown, didn't want John touching him, and John was more than willing to respect that. It didn't seem the detective even wanted to or was able to speak, but John had to know what had happened to know how to proceed, and sitting outside in the cold and waiting didn't sound like a good idea. "Sherlock," he said softly, in the gentlest tone he could find within himself, "Can I go inside?" If Sherlock couldn't tell him what had happened, perhaps he'd let John go in and find out for himself.

There was no way for Sherlock to express himself with words at the moment, his throat tight and his entire person trembling, but he stepped aside and ducked his head slightly, making room for John to entire of his own will. After a moment of hovering, pale and ephemeral like a ghost over John's shoulder, he cleared his throat. "I ask, that you don't get upset with me," he said softly, reaching for the doorknob when John didn't. His teeth worried fearsomely into his lip as he turned the knob and tried to steel himself, his expression returning as close as it could to his favored emptiness, devoid of emotion. He wanted very much to be the sociopath he constantly claimed himself as, to have no sense of the mess of emotions that flooded him. The only guilt he felt, however, was that John was going to find out, John was going to see. With a shuddery sigh, Sherlock pulled open the door, the hinges giving a movie quality creaking as he did so.

Sherlock-Sherlock Holmes-asking John not to get upset. That set off an alarm in John's head. He never cared if he upset anyone. That was clearly evidenced by him sending Kelly packing, not even considering how it would affect John. The doctor entered the flat and it instantly reminded him of what Baker Street had been before he'd arrived. Messy, foul-smelling. A fellow user, probably. John walked down the short hallway until his foot collided with something. It was dark and he couldn't make out what it was, so he felt around on the wall until he found a light switch. He flipped it on and the room filled with bright yellow lights, illuminating the body lying on the floor. "Jesus!" John couldn't help but gasp and he knelt down, Doctor Watson immediately taking over. The body was pale, hair matted down with gloppy blood. The blood was smeared all over the man's face and neck, even his ears. John reached forward and put his fingers on the eyelids, gently prying them open. Dead, obviously. He recognized the corpse. He had seen the same man when following Sherlock through that grungy red door in the alleyway. So this was Sherlock's dealer? It was a logical assumption, one that Sherlock himself would have been proud of. John stood up and wiped his hand on his jeans, then saw Sherlock standing in the corner of the room, watching him. John suddenly felt very uncomfortable with the whole thing and not just a little bit frightened. "What happened?" He asked, although it sounded more of a statement-judging from the corpse's broken nose, the bruises on the side of his face and jaw and cheeks, and the blood on Sherlock's knuckles, it was all too obvious. "Sherlock, tell me exactly what happened."

As John entered the room, shocked when he brought the body to light, Sherlock instantly retreated to the corner and began to rub his hands along his neck, a movement that was an attempt to soothe his anxiety. It was all for nothing, however, the sight of John taking in what happened here, coming to the realization that Sherlock had truly done something grossly terrible. Something society considered entirely unforgivable. When John began to interrogate him, Sherlock felt dizzy, his heart pounding so hard it felt close to bursting from the sheer force of it all. He moved to sit down, making a strangled sound in his throat as he took the chair, and not the couch that Victor's attempted assault had occurred on. He ducked his head down and looked to the floor, attempting to keep his composure as he fought to maintain the courage to speak to John. "He.. He said I could stay for a couple of days. We've known each other since Uni, so i had come to the assumption that being here in the flat with him for a couple of days would have been entirely harmless." He hesitated. "I was wrong, it seemed, as he tried to take advantage of me sexually.." He stopped for a moment as he brought his hands up to pull the edges of the shirt closed again, eyes fixing on a button that had scattered across the room. "When I refused him, he only tried harder. I promised him only a kiss if he left me alone, but he used that as a leverage point to try to get me to sleep with him. When it became too much, I punched him and fought him away from me. He became angry and physically assaulted me, and so I fought back in defense." Sherlock's pale gaze shifted up to the doctor and he shrunk back in his seat though he didn't let any emotion so much as twitch an eyebrow. "I went too far."

John suddenly released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. It came from his lips in a shaky wheeze, his cold acting up at full force. Seeing the body_—this _body, this horrifically beaten, bloody body-was making him hear bombs, literal bombs. It had been over a month since he had seen a body like this. The Isle of Man was known for its low crime rate-something that had drawn him to it in the first place-and being exposed to something like this, something that he hadn't seen since being part of Sherlock's investigation, was making him once again think of his days as a soldier. John's eyes shut as he tried to process it, tried to process everything. He couldn't think over his platoon's screams and the mind-numbing sound of machine guns going off. They were coming, they were going to take him and his men prisoner, or kill them on the spot; he'd been trained for this, hadn't he? 'Watson, NKAWA0392' over and over in the dark room, until they stopped beating him or killed him, but he couldn't give them tactical information; he _wouldn't_ give them...

Another deep breath and his eyes snapped open, just as they had before in the flat. He was in London. He was with Sherlock. Not in the desert, not being held as a POW. John lifted one of his hands and let it run through his hair, which he could swear was getting grayer by the second. "That's one way to put it," he croaked. His voice was choked up from the flashback and his cold, plus the sheer magnitude of what he was looking at lying on the ground beside his feet. "But if you acted in self-defense..." John trailed off. No jury would listen to that. Self-defense would have been punching the man, knocking him out, giving him a black eye and a nasty scratch while making an escape. This was murder, plain and simple. Plus, Sherlock was clearly high, which would undoubtedly make his case even worse. "They'd convict you," John said finally. He didn't need to go into more details, plus he was sure that Sherlock was already aware of them. What could they do? Call Lestrade? The DI himself might understand, but the rest of the force certainly wouldn't. Sherlock would be arrested immediately and sentenced. Mycroft? This would probably be the final straw, the one where Mycroft threw up his hands and said, bloody hell, I give up, and let Sherlock go to prison. John licked his dry lips, brow furrowed, and looked at his old flatmate rather helplessly. "What do we do?"

Sherlock could see by the intense shift in John's breathing patterns that seeing this body was really hitting him wrong, clearly reminding him of Afghanistan, of his war experience. He wanted to get up and move to John's side, but he wanted more to be away from Victor's cadaver. He was tempted to wrap his arms around John to comfort him, but there was no way he was in the mood to be touched by anyone. So he remained seated, his eyes staying locked on John as the man snapped back to reality without Sherlock's assistance and questioned what they should do. "I would have called Lestrade.. But no one would believe I acted in self-defense.. there's really no proof for it. And.. I didn't know what to do. Mycroft might not take care of it. And I truly haven't the slightest idea what to do. That's why I called you, John.." Sherlock brought his hands up along his neck to scrub through his corvine curls, trying very hard to think of a solution. The drugs were still pulsing in his system and he'd avoided thinking for so long that it was a slow going process. "I suppose.. we could be rid of the body," Sherlock muttered. "Or stage it as being a murder by an unidentified suspect.."

"No, nobody would believe that," John said, nodding his head in agreement. Then why did /he/ believe it? He knew Sherlock, as much as he hated to admit it when he was still so angry with him. He knew the man and knew that he wouldn't kill someone without a good reason, a damn good reason. Sherlock didn't have any respect for life, especially not his own, but he wasn't a murderer. "Especially with Anderson and Donovan preaching to everyone that you're a psychopath or-or sociopath, whatever they're calling you these days." Get rid of the body. That was one option. John thought through ways of how to do just that: dump him in the Thames? Bury it somewhere? Burn it? They all seemed so morbid. "I don't think staging a murder is a good idea," John told him. "Lestrade might think that, with me being here, you're able to take on cases again. He might come to you with this one. Clearly one that you set up yourself is going to be one that you only you can solve." John's face was set in a deep frown; he didn't like where this was going. He didn't like anything about it, not one bit, but what choice did they have? Coming clean seemed to be the worst solution right now. "Let's get rid of the body. We need to hide him someplace where even you wouldn't think to look."

As much as Sherlock dreaded the thought of it, John was right. There was very little option remaining in regards to Victor's body, and so disposing of him was probably the most viable option. Sherlock shook his head and sighed, knotting his hands into fists in his dark curls for a moment, trying to think. "Perhaps we have no choice.. But how will we dispose of him?" He thought of numerous options, sitting still as he began to think this through. They could bury him deep, then halfway to the surface bury a dead animal. Even if the police searched for Victor, digging in that spot and finding the animal would cause a false positive instead. But he didn't know if John cared so much for that risk. Another method was the use of acids and a polyethelene container to literally liquefy the body, then dump him into the sewer perhaps. But that came up as being far too morbid, messy, and time consuming. It could take a week for the entirety of his body to dissolve. "I'm not certain, John. There are numerous ways to be rid of him, and none of the most effective methods are.. pleasant. We could bury him, liquefy him, feed him to pigs, dump him into the Thames, though that would have to be done properly and properly is messy. We could burn him, but it would have to be somewhere remote and done in pieces.." He sort of trailed off, thinking off how none of this, absolutely none of this was ethical or something he wanted to do at all.

The ideas all made John sick to his stomach. He threw himself onto the couch, not knowing that just a while earlier the strange man was attempting to take advantage of Sherlock in that very spot. He wished that they could simply disguise it as a drug overdose, but the autopsy would show the man's heart was working fine, his brain was in gear, that the cause of death was from blood loss and the severity of the wounds inflicted on his head, not the cocaine itself. Clearly it was too late now to give him something to make his heart race to the point of stopping, and John was admittedly ashamed that he even thought about doing such a thing. He had always done things for Sherlock, whether he wanted to or not, and it seemed like this would be no different. "I'm not cutting off his limbs," John said firmly. "And neither are you. We have to have _some_ limits, yeah?" John ran his hand over his face; God, his head was throbbing like nobody's business. He wished that he hadn't drank that whisky. It wasn't the whisky's fault, he knew, but he needed to blame something, and he couldn't blame himself to blame Sherlock. He scoffed and let a mirthless smile lift his lips. "Maybe we should call Moriarty. We could use a consulting criminal right about now."

Call Moriarty, John suggested. Call Sherlock's nemesis, the man who tested the limits of his intelligence, the man who on many occasions nearly knocked Sherlock off the fringes of this sanity. That was... That was like admitting defeat. "No doubt, Moriarty would be disappointed.. However, he could easily use it as something he can hold over my head, John. If I were to call him, there is no doubt that I would never be able to have him caught unless we did something quite so elaborate as using this body to have him caught in the act... However, I feel as though that is something the man would anticipate. I suppose.. I suppose we need his help. And if we are to capture him in the future.." For a few very long minutes, Sherlock was silent, formulating something dire and dark. Something for the future. A way to have Moriarty caught because after this, Sherlock could only imagine the steps that the man would take to have Sherlock ruined, knowing that the man would be able to do little to stop Moriarty if the criminal could hold something over his head. If there was a way for Moriarty to keep Sherlock in the game he made, he knew the man would take it. It would certainly be a drastic measure, and it wouldn't occur for a long while yet, but it was necessary. Sherlock was glad for once that he was sobering up, his foresight lending him the plot to stop all plots, the final endgame. But that plan isn't relevant now. And to begin it, he had to have Moriarty's help with this. "If you think it is the right decision, I can call him. I see little other option unless you want to locate a pig farm."

John looked at Sherlock and his eyes widened. He hadn't been serious, he hadn't been serious in the slightest. And now Sherlock was actually talking about asking for his help? There had to be another way, there had to be a simple, fool-proof way to dispose of a body...not one that he could think of, and not one that Sherlock could think of, but...surely there was some other way. For a second, John considered agreeing to chopping the man's arms and legs off, strictly so that they wouldn't have to get in touch with the criminal mastermind, but then he felt nausea creeping into his stomach and shook the thought out of his head. He wouldn't be able to live with himself. Covering up a death was bad enough, but desecrating a corpse was something that would haunt his dreams until the day he died. He hadn't done it in the army and he sure as hell wasn't going to do it now. "No," John said softly, shaking his head as he finalized his thoughts. "No, I...I can't think of anything else. I'm sure there's a solution, but hell, if Sherlock Holmes can't think of it, I certainly won't be able to. Just..." he paused, waving his hand in Sherlock's direction in defeat. "Just call the man. Get it bloody well over with."

To say Sherlock was hesitant was a severe understatement. This was the man that stalked him and attempted to destroy his life just so that he could have something to do with himself. "Alright," Sherlock muttered with a heavy sigh as he stood up and looked down at his hands. They were so red, so tinged with that sanguine color and there was nothing more that he wanted than to just wash it off. He moved to the kitchen sink, taking the five minutes he needed to scrub every bit off red off of his hands, save for the crescent of the hue that caked under his fingertips. He'd take care of that later. Once he was done, Sherlock walked into the bathroom and grabbed a bottle of peroxide, quickly chasing the blood that flowed down the sink with the mixture, eliminate what he could. Really, the one thing Sherlock wanted more than anything else was a long shower, but now wasn't the time for that. He pulled out his phone and looked to John briefly before calling the number that Moriarty had last contacted him with and hoping the madman hadn't changed it since.

James Moriarty hadn't slept for four nights. He had better things to do with his time, much, _much_ better things. Pillage and plunder, hack into the CIA's database, bribe world leaders (or just threaten them, either worked), create a whole new ring of human trafficking in Hong Kong. So many things to do, and not a single one of them held his interest for more than a few moments. They were all so easy. First he offered money. He had more than enough of it. Even with his expensive tastes, there was no way that he alone could spend his billions and billions of dollars, not in one lifetime, anyway. If the money didn't work, threats came next, both to the target themselves and to their loved ones. If _that_ didn't work, he had them executed and the process began with the next person in line. Easy peasy. All of it. This particular night found Jim sitting on his laptop at his desk, in his library within the chambers of his home. One hand was being used to hold a tumbler of brandy, the other was poised over his mouse, clicking through various webcams of his operations across the globe. When his mobile began to buzz inside his trouser pockets, Jim rolled his eyes. Moran knew better than to contact him this late; what the hell was he doing? If it were anyone other than Moran, he would kill them on sight. Mere employees didn't have the authority. Jim retrieved his phone and looked at the number as the device continued to buzz. A wide, satisfied smile appeared on his face. He eagerly pressed 'Accept' and held the phone to his ear. "Why hello Sherlock, dear. How unexpected. Couldn't wait any longer to hear my plans for you, hmm? I understand. After all, they are rather _pressing._"

As soon as the pitching, shifting, singsong voice of the self-proclaimed consulting criminal reached his ears, Sherlock closed his eyes, his face twisting just slightly before settling again and he cleared his throat. His eyes opened, gaze, pale and unnerved, shifted to John's for a brief moment before going down to the floor the way a child looks down in shame. John shouldn't be seeing Sherlock talk to the dangerous man. It was nearly embarrassing. "Yes, pressing," Sherlock sighed as he brought a hand up and dragged it through his hair. After a second, he reverted back to his usual attitude, not wanting to appear rude as though he feared Moriarty in any manner. "Unfortunately, that's going to have to wait, my apologies. I've a situation on my hands, and I figured this is the proper time to hire a consulting criminal, hm? I'm asking you for your services." Business. If it was like a business transaction, it didn't have to be as though Sherlock was folding under Moriarty's influence, It wouldn't have to be admitting defeat.

"A situation," Jim repeated, clearly amused at Sherlock calling and asking-no, begging, he liked the sound of that more-for his help. "What type of situation? I can't believe this is one that you can't workout yourself. You are, after all, a genius. Although what does that make me?" He thought himself superior to Sherlock in each and every way, and no the tables were turning when Sherlock actually called upon him for help? It wasn't a trap; Sherlock was too clever to do a simple trap. Plus, they were on the same playing field; Sherlock wouldn't want help in bringing him down, not if he could help it. If he _did_ require help, he would keep it quiet and make sure that there was as little as possible outside involvement. "What can I do for you, Sherlock?" Jim asked him cheerfully. "You know that I am, as ever, at your disposal." He had wanted to hear the man's voice again; it had been too long. After being interrogated by Mycroft Holmes and his goons for weeks, it was a relief to be around some actual _intelligence_ again.

The focus of Sherlock's gaze snaked along the floor until it locked on the body, the blood surrounding Victor beginning to coagulate in thick globs in the pool, causing discontent to course through Sherlock's stomach. Standing up straight, posture stiff, Sherlock backed up until he was leaned against a counter, attempting to use physical casual appearance to facilitate a casual attitude in his phone conversation. "It's a rather surprising predicament, you see. I've killed a man, and I didn't quite think it through." Sherlock hummed as he looked at Victor's battered face, remaining as apathetic as he could to the man, mentally referring to him as 'the body' instead of as 'Victor's body'. He wasn't a person anymore, only a problem that Sherlock needed Moriarty to take care of. "I've no idea what to do with the body that isn't terribly gruesome, and I don't care very much to do too much work to hide it properly. I'd like you to take care of it for me."

John watched Sherlock. The detective was visibly affected by the body, the blood, and now the phone call was adding insult to injury. This was a bad idea; it was a _stupid_ idea. He couldn't believe how blunt Sherlock was being about the whole thing, but, then again, Moriarty's intelligence rivaled his own—no doubt he'd figure out on his own what happened, whether Sherlock told him the specifics or not. John wished that he could at least hear the phone conversation. He was feeling better—it didn't take him too long to get used to a dead body, after all, he'd seen hundreds if not thousands throughout his life. It had just been the thought of performing such a savage act as mutilating the corpse, plus the initial reaction to it after not seeing one so gruesomely killed since his days at war.

"I can do that, Sherlock," Jim was telling Sherlock in his most pleasant voice, a wide smile on his face as he spoke the words. He, too, kept his tone exceedingly casual and friendly. What a convenient situation he was finding himself in. Sherlock admitting to a murder; could it get any better than this? All he would have to do later would be to have one of his lesser employees contact the mobile company, get a copy of the recordings, and use them in his scheme. He'd already planned everything out, of course, but it wasn't going to go into motion for a few months—he had too many things to do first, too many loose ends to wrap up. "Don't worry about the blood and gore; I have men _just_ for that. All I'll need is your location—don't make me look, darling, I really don't have the time—and whatever collateral you have to offer."

At the last bit, Sherlock frowned. "Collateral? I think this whole situation is collateral enough, Moriarty. Honestly, you couldn't ask for anything more.." he paused, eyeing the body. "Convenient. Just have it taken care of. I'll text you the address." Sherlock didn't want to converse with the psychopath any longer, the tone of the man's voice, making his skin crawl. And he knew that if he waited for any longer after the break between sentences that Moriarty might ask something, might say something. So he hung up, and immediately texted the man Victor's address as promised. Pocketing his phone, Sherlock didn't look at John as he walked into Victor's bedroom, retrieving the bag he'd initially packed for his night over and stored away anything that would reveal he was there. As soon as he was done, he walked back into the sitting room, pausing when he forgot the placement of the body and the edge of his shoe toed into the blood. Moriarty's men would handle that, but Sherlock didn't want to do something like wipe his shoe off on a towel, or something, anything that could get left behind or found in the trash. So, with a vacant expression, he moved and dragged his foot over Victor's shirt, smearing the blood off of his shoe. When finished, he didn't look at John, just the body. "We should go now," he murmured.

"There must be some catch," John said, but stood up anyway, taking one more cursory glance around the room. "He's really just going to take care of it for you? What did he say?" The whole thing seemed a bit too easy. Of course Moriarty could easily prove that Sherlock was there, either through real evidence or planted, but it seemed odd that he was even going to let them go just for one night in peace. When he saw that Sherlock clearly intended to leave, his stomach tightened up again when he realized that he had absolutely no idea what the man was planning to do now. Go to another dealer, another 'friend' and shoot up at their house? It was doubtful that he would return to 221B, but John had the motel room anyway, so did it even matter? Although...that might have been a better idea than to return to their known address. With the CCTV cameras and Moriarty and Mycroft keeping tabs on them-which he assumed both men did-it didn't seem like there was much of a point, but he thought to offer it up anyway. "Why don't you stay in my motel room tonight? Just in case he were to come to Baker Street looking for you, it would...I don't know, slow him down."

Sherlock wasn't exactly in the mood to argue, so he simply nodded his head in consent and shifted his gaze from the body to the door of the flat, hardly looking alive. In fact, he had paled so much from his unhealthy state combined with the anxiety of the situation that it was surprising he was still standing. His pallid porcelain skin looked sickly, the man appearing close to fainting. "So be it. Just for the night," Sherlock sighed as he adjusted the bag in hand and headed for the door, wanting more than ever to just leave. In fact, he never even wanted to pass by this house again and was more than willing to take other routes should he need to pass by at any time. He was already plotting them out mentally. That's when he realized that he was thinking and quite clearly again, and the sensation of gear movement in his head was unwelcome, preferring when his mind was gathering dust as a sessile cog. "Let's leave," he muttered as he walked to the door and opened it, waiting for John to follow. His body craved a fix again, and so did his mind before it became too active. Yes, cocaine was a stimulant, but there was just a point where it stopped being stimulating, where the thoughts became so fast he could hardly tell what was going on anymore, and that's what he wanted. Blissful confusion. And he'd get it in the bathroom of John's hotel room before taking a shower and washing away everything that happened that night.

John followed Sherlock out of the house, watching as the man locked and closed the door behind them. Sherlock looked as if he were going to collapse any second now. At first John decided not to touch him, not to help him, because he knew Sherlock didn't want that, and to be honest, he didn't either. Things were still so uncomfortable between the two of them, so awkward, and John was making it a point to remain distant. He knew that if he let his guard down he would go back into full mother-hen mode, attending to Sherlock every need without a second thought, and he didn't _want_ to be in that situation again. Maybe if he had stood up for himself more in the past, Sherlock wouldn't have become so reliant on him, Sherlock wouldn't have panicked at the thought of losing him, Sherlock wouldn't have said all those things to Kelly...maybe. He supposed that he would never know for sure. As they continued to walk-Sherlock was plodding, really-John came to the unfortunate realization that, if Sherlock were to collapse, he'd have to carry him to the motel. That would attract attention and that was the _last_ thing either man wanted right now. He reached his hand out and gripped Sherlock's bicep, not roughly as he did at the hospital just a few days ago, but firm enough to steady him. "It's not far," he said softly. "Just a few blocks."

The hand that wrapped about his arm was far more comfortable than Sherlock had anticipated, though much of his mind screamed in protest. No, he didn't want the touch, but it would be a lie to say he didn't need it. When it came, Sherlock found himself relaxing slightly into it, his head heavy as though it were filled with sand. His body felt light, though, perhaps from the lack of food and the overuse of drugs. It was as though the only thing keeping him grounded was John's grip and the sand that sloshed in his head. Everything was so overwhelming, the murder, the drugs, and John and his entire body was simply rejecting it all, it was as though it were inverting itself. As though it were being strapped to a rocket and being shot into space at an unfathomable speed. The druxy exoskeleton of his mind palace was close to crumbling and Sherlock felt as though he was going to break down with just that supportive touch from John. He didn't want to let it show that he was so conflicted and injured, so he maintained his expression, leaning slightly into John as they walked, silent as he waited for the man to lead him to the motel.

Awkwardly they walked for about a kilometer, until the blinding fluorescent lights of the motel could be seen. The shops around the motel were closed, fortunately, and there weren't many people out at this hour. They entered the hotel and John gave the two girls working the front desk a small smile, hoping and praying that his face didn't betray what he was really feeling. Anxiety. Guilt. Anger. Shame. Had he done the right thing? He wasn't convinced that he had. Sometimes the right thing to do was the wrong thing, but he didn't feel this was one of those situations. Sherlock would have gone to prison-people go to prison, it happens. The detective was more than capable of taking care of himself. At least, he used to be. Perhaps it was the deeper layers of John's subconscious guilt that refused to let his former friend go to jail, go to rehab. Would he get clean in jail? Very, very doubtful. Would he stay in rehab long enough to get clean? Even more doubtful. He didn't feel confident in his own abilities to get Sherlock off the drugs, particularly sense he didn't plan on staying any longer than he had to, but as he had said before, he wanted to be able to tell people that he had tried and _not _be lying. They arrived at John's room and John unlocked the door, letting his hand drop from Sherlock's arm as he pushed it open. "Go on in." As Sherlock did so, John followed him, looking around the small room for anything he would want to take back to Baker Street with him for the night. "Do you, um...need anything?" It was a primarily medical question, he wasn't asking if Sherlock wanted to talk, if he needed a hug, a shoulder to cry on, nothing as ludicrous as that. Although, he probably would have provided the man with those things, too.

"I need you to try and relax," Sherlock murmured as he glanced at John's face, spotting the mixture of emotions there that resulted from everything that had just happened. He shifted his gaze away and put down his overnight bag, heading for the bathroom to shower. "The entire time up here you looked as though you were self-conflicted about something, and with the way I must have looked as you rushed me to the room, I'm sure someone thinks you've hired a male prostitute for the time being. Moriarty will take care of everything. I don't need anything else." With that, he slipped into the bathroom and removed the drugs he now kept constantly on his person from his pocket. Making sure the door was shut, Sherlock quickly prepared some cocaine, inhaling sharply on the white powder before wiping what remained and putting the rest away. Once he had, he moved to the shower and turned it on, waiting for the water to turn hot before stripping down and stepping in. The water was scalding, burning and painful, but Sherlock couldn't have enjoyed it more than at that moment as he tried as well as he could to scrub the night away.

John leaned against the bathroom door and frowned, shaking his head as he heard Sherlock forcibly inhaling, cocaine no doubt. "That's not why I was nervous, you git," he said, raising his voice only slightly so that Sherlock could hear him over the shower. "I don't care what they think." Not exactly true, because it _had_ always bothered John when people thought he and Sherlock were a couple, but for once, that thought hadn't even crossed his mind tonight. "I was actually more worried about you, believe it or not." Of course Sherlock didn't believe it. John wasn't sure if _he_ believed it. "I'm going to head out," he said, again loud enough so that he knew Sherlock heard him. "I'll be back in the morning. For God's sake, please don't destroy anything tonight, yeah?" Room key in tow, John turned and left. Sherlock didn't need him; he said so himself. He'd be fine. Nothing bad was going to happen. Sherlock was confident that Moriarty would deal with their little problem, amazingly enough. John walked down the hotel room and into the lobby and was just about to leave the building, but he stopped. His body froze and he just could _not_ make himself go any further. It wasn't right, what he was doing. Leaving the man in the hotel room alone when he was in such a state. John turned and walked back down the hallway, removing his jacket as he did so. When he arrived at the room, rather than going back in, he got down on the hard floor just outside the door and lay down on his side, balling his coat up and placing it underneath his head. It was incredibly uncomfortable, and he would no doubt be stiff in the morning-assuming he wasn't woken up before by the hotel staff-but he felt it was something he had to do.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks to everyone who left feedback thus far! It is so appreciated, really! Things have come up that may mean backarapper and I have to put this on hold for a bit, but I've got enough material left to probably bring out another two or three chapters. Let's hope that doesn't happen, but if it does, just letting you guys know now. R&R and thanks so much for reading.**

Sherlock sighed as he heard John leave the room, hurriedly scrubbing himself off. He must have spent over half an hour in the shower, his fingertips wrinkled and numb, patches of skin on his body where he'd scrubbed too hard having turned raw and no matter what, he simply couldn't wash it away as easily as he'd hoped. The blood was gone from his skin, the body was nowhere in sight. But the whole thing stuck with him in an unexpected manner and he could have sworn it was visible, that his actions were visible on his skin. As though 'I murdered a man' was written on his forehead in bold letters for all to see. It was unnerving. Sherlock escaped the shower, only glancing in the mirror once to be sure it wasn't written there before getting a towel and wrapping it about himself.

As he stepped out of the bathroom, Sherlock realized John really was gone, but tried not to think about it. As he had before when John was in the Isle of Man, he struggled not to think about the fact that he felt abandoned again, especially with his head whirling as though he'd received an impact. Instead, he decided to focus on getting some food, considering he hadn't eaten in a while. There was no guarantee he would eat with everything that had occurred, but he felt as though he was going to faint and the empty roaring in his stomach wasn't helping. Hair still wet but completely dressed, Sherlock looked around only to see that John had taken the room key with him, meaning he'd not be able to leave and come back. Looking about, Sherlock found a couple of small things he could use to jam the door and leave it open until he came back. As he set about jamming the door, however, pulling it open, he saw John curled up on the floor and found himself surprised. "..I thought you had left," he said softly.

John heard the door open and, before he could even_ think _about getting up and dashing down the hallway, Sherlock had opened it. He'd been trying to fall asleep, very unsuccessfully. His back hurt and his shoulder was beginning to throb mercilessly, as it did whenever he put any weight on it. He looked up at Sherlock and heard him say 'I thought you had left', and John was instantly on his feet and brushing himself off. "Yes, well...obviously I-I didn't," he said, then cleared his throat. Sherlock was planning to go out; where was he going? Drugs? To see Moriarty? To-and God forgive him for thinking this-kill someone else on 'accident'? Every few seconds a pulse of pain would emanate from his shoulder and travel down his left arm and his spine but he once again put on his Captain Watson face and ignored it. "I thought _you_ had gone to sleep. Where were you planning to go at this hour?" Sherlock looked terrible. His skin wasn't pale; it was _white._ There were a few blotches of red on his face but that was from the shower, he assumed. Sherlock's eye looked terrible. It was turning dark blue in a wide circle around the eye itself and, as it was starting to swell, he saw that Sherlock couldn't even open it all the way.

Even without John's tone, Sherlock could see the displeasure in the fact that he was leaving and that irritated him. The man needn't be a guard dog for Sherlock, he could make his own decisions. It was hardly up to John. "It's not your business, is it?" Sherlock asked as he exited the room and pushed the door shut behind himself, seeing as John had a key. He jammed his hands in his pockets, not knowing where else to put them and feeling terribly awkward in general as he stood there. "If you must know, I was going to go have a meal. I can't recall the last thing I ate, and that's usually a sign that I should have something to eat. Can I have the room key? Or do you plan to go inside?" Sherlock extended his palm to take the key, his fingertips and skin still pale and wrinkled from being under the water for too long.

A meal? John never would have guessed that. Of course there was always the possibility that Sherlock was lying, but he could only hope this wasn't the case. If Sherlock was willing to eat, John wanted to make sure that he ate as much as possible, even if he would just throw it up later after another dose of drugs. John put his hand on his pocket, ensuring that his wallet was still inside it, and shook his head. "No, you know what, now that you mention it, I feel a bit peckish myself. Where're we going?" He hadn't eaten since arriving back in London, having only been able to stomach tea. Sherlock had an influence over his eating habits without even intending to, how awful. Their options were limited due to the hour, but London had a plethora of 24-hour dining options.

Sherlock frowned at the way John wanted to hover over him, keep an eye out, made obvious by the fact that he was laying out by the door instead of coming inside to sleep or going back to 221b like he told Sherlock he would. Sherlock simply bypassed John when he said he'd join up, offering him a shrug as retort to his question. "I was only going to go to whatever place I happened upon first. It matters little to me so long as I get food. If you have somewhere you'd prefer, however, I don't see why we can't go." Sherlock reached the end of the hall and paused to walk beside John, using the moment in which he waited to pull his coat tighter about his person. "You always did have a penchant for Chinese food, hm? I think there's a place nearby if you're interested."

"Yes," John said with a nod, eagerly agreeing to whatever Sherlock offered. "Chinese is fine, it's-it's lovely. Just promise me you won't get anything spicy, all right? With all the drugs you've got in your body right now, it wouldn't be good for you. And that is _not_ me telling you what to do or me trying to have authority over you; it's just a bit of friendly advice." John already knew what Chinese place Sherlock was talking about, so the two walked there side by side, just like old times. After finishing a case, they had often gone to the Chinese restaurant at the end of Baker Street in the wee hours of the morning and talked and laughed. Sherlock always tried to predict the fortune cookies and he was always wrong, although there were occasions he got unnervingly close. They walked in silence to the restaurant and even after arriving and ordering their drinks, they still said nothing. John got tea and a water. He was adamant to flush out whatever of the whisky was still in his system. It was awkward as hell to sit here and not say a word to each other, but John didn't know what to say, especially considering what had happened earlier in the evening.

Sherlock had ordered himself a water and a simple plate of lo mein, not wanting anything too filling or anything that John would have considered to be spicy. He didn't want the man to be more concerned than he was. Once his water arrived alongside John's tea and water, Sherlock took a sip, the liquid feeling relieving to his dry throat. Afterwards, he placed the cup down on the table and began to slowly turn it counterclockwise, as he stared at the water, not looking to John. "Thank you," he blurted after a bit, still keeping his eyes low. "For helping me, I mean. For trying to, with everything. However.. I don't know why you're still here." Sherlock scrunched up his nose before allowing his eyes to meet John's, staring at him for a long moment. "You just helped me with something incredibly illegal.. Not to mention the drugs. And you're still here. I figured.. I figured I'd have never seen you again after calling you and telling you something happened. Why are you staying?"

It was a good question, one that John still didn't know the answer to. He returned Sherlock's gaze, both of them looking each other, unblinkingly. It was as if all the aversion, all the 'looking anywhere but at him' instances were being made up for now, right now, in this staring contest. Instead of directly answering Sherlock's question, John permitted himself a small smile; the right corner of his mouth lifted up just a touch. "Aren't you glad I am?" He mimicked Sherlock by taking a long sip of his water while thinking about what to say next. 'Aren't you glad I am?' He didn't want to leave it at that. It sounded too mocking, too arrogant, like he was hinting that Sherlock couldn't handle himself on his own. While that might be true, John didn't want to draw attention to it. Now wasn't the time. As he set his glass down and returned his gaze to Sherlock's, he said, "I'm glad I am."

Sherlock frowned slightly at John's question as to whether he was glad, because honestly he didn't really know anymore. Leaning back in his seat, his eyes shifted off to the side as he thought, considered. No, he wasn't glad that John was helping him, not at all. Initially, the idea was brilliant, bringing John back. But now that Sherlock realized that John wasn't staying for the long term, only until he deemed Sherlock able to live like a normal human being, he was displeased. Why did it matter if John helped him now? Sherlock was all but incapable of existing on his own, finding himself making one poor decision after another. "No," he answered truthfully, not looking at John. "It would have been better if you didn't come here at all." He wanted to say it would have been better if John hadn't left, but he bit his tongue. Pointless to anger the man right now, not when they were actually at peace for the moment, if not shaken by the evening's events.

"It's not too late for me to go back," John said softly, speaking more to himself than to Sherlock. They both knew he wasn't going to leave yet, particularly after what had preceded their meal. Their food arrived, thankfully giving them both a distraction from the awkwardness filling the space around them. Looking at his sweet and sour chicken made John cringe. The red sauce coating the chunks of chicken made him think about the clots of blood covering the man's face. John closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths until he was able to push the image out of his mind. Not his first dead body, not by a long shot, so why was it affecting him so badly? After picking the smallest piece of chicken he could see and biting into it, John was rushed back into the present moment. He wasn't looking at a corpse; he was eating dinner. Eating dinner and thinking about what step to take next with Sherlock Holmes in what would no doubt be a long journey to get him-well, try to get him-better.

With mild amusement, Sherlock watched John slowly eat a piece of his food, seeing how he seemed to return to the current moment, his eyes no longer containing a sheen of memory, bright and blue and in the here and now. He suddenly became enveloped in his dinner, his expression seeming to lighten up a bit as he ate. Sherlock had yet to even look at his plate of lo mein, content to watch John for a while and remember when they had first met. Back then, the man ate dangerously low portions of food, though still more than Sherlock. It was always minimal, an apple and tea for breakfast, for example. But slowly, as Sherlock pulled John out of his shell and his mind, occupied him with casework and all sorts of activities, the man's appetite returned as the PTSD diminished. Sherlock had always been concerned about the man's health, having slowly built up the size of his meals until he was eating full breakfasts, lunches and dinners daily though Sherlock's meals were still usually limited to when he was hungry. Infrequent. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock's eyes glazed slightly as they examined John's waistline, seeing through his jumper he'd lost some of the weight Sherlock so carefully had him gain. Was he being bothered by his past again? Now wasn't the time to think about it. He took up his fork and began to play with his food, but despite his body's desire to eat, Sherlock could barely bring himself to.

"Eat," John said softly as his eyes traveled down Sherlock's body, along his lean arm, to the pale, bony fingers which were holding a fork, twirling noodles around pointlessly. "You'll feel better once you have something inside you. Food, I mean." John's mobile beeped and he sighed as he leaned over in the booth, reaching into his trouser pocket to retrieve it and read the message.

Sorry it took me a while to write back. How's everything going? Is your friend okay?

It was from Mary, obviously. John was torn between not wanting to lie and not wanting to tell her anything about the situation. He set his fork down on his napkin and typed out a quick message to her.

Things aren't really going yet. He's the most stubborn man I've ever met in my life. JW

She began typing instantly, so John kept his phone in his hand, watching the screen for her next message. He'd been back for nearly three days and had hardly spoken with her, and he felt bad for that.

/He's/ stubborn? What are you then? Kidding, you know I love you.  
But seriously, you are stubborn.

John chuckled at her messages. He wanted to talk more, but it was so awkward to be texting his girlfriend right in front of Sherlock, considering what had happened with his last one. He wrote back, 'I know I am. I love you too. I'll call you tomorrow, okay? I'm sorry, I'm with him right now. Gotta go.' She wrote back with a heart.

Sherlock scrunched his nose in slight disgust at John's request to eat, but he complied, rising the fork to his lips and taking a small forkful of the noodles. Then John's phone went off and Sherlock watched him, seeing the way he smiled brightly at the messages he received, the soft chuckles the man emitted making him bitter and his heart clench. Why was it doing that? Why did this matter so much to Sherlock? He looked down at his plate with pursed lips, eyes glaring down at the meal he and his body no longer craved. In fact, his stomach was roiling, nauseous and tight. If he had more food in him, he may have vomited from the intensity in which his stomach churned. Seeing John so content, seeing him slip elsewhere where Sherlock knew he was _happier_ made him feel sick. And angry. Of course, he knew he had no right to feel that way and it wasn't entirely within his understanding (not that he'd admit to such) but regardless of his internal conflict, his face was a vacant slate, simply staring down at the food. "I've lost my appetite," he muttered with a sigh, speaking the truth as he put down his fork and pushed his plate away.

John didn't look at him as he returned his mobile phone to his pocket. "Fine. We'll get it to go and you can eat it later." He slowly continued on eating his chicken, using the time between each bite to think about where to go next with the detective. "If I went with you, would you be willing to go to a few group therapy sessions? They really are helpful. I went to some when I got discharged, for PTSD. Obviously they didn't cure me, but..." John trailed off. Sherlock didn't need to know _everything_ he had gone through upon returning from the war. "But they helped," he finished. "They made things...better. If you thought I was pathetic when we met, you should have seen me a month earlier." Nightmares all night, every night, and constant flashbacks when he was awake. His limp was so bad that he had needed a wheelchair rather than a cane. He had left his room, on average, twice per week, ate rarely, and spent the majority of his days sitting in silence and suffering from panic attacks, memories, and bouts of blacking out. "They'll help you find other ways of dealing with pain, depression, boredom. Whatever it is that's going on in your funny head that made you turn to the drugs in the first place."

Considering the start of the drugs were a part of a plan to make John come home, Sherlock doubted in the value of the support groups to himself than to John. "No," he answered in a firm voice as he sat back, slouching slightly in his seat. "I don't want to have discussions with idiots about their idiot problems. I'm fine, I don't need it." He didn't actually sound so convinced, but he remained defensive as he crossed his arms over his chest, glaring a warning at John not to bother suggesting it again. It didn't matter if he went or didn't, none of it mattered. All Sherlock had to do was remain clean while John was around, and then he could do as he liked when he wasn't. Besides, it wasn't as though the detective was in pain, or depressed, or bored. Honestly, he was simply lonely and the loneliness is what caused the pain, the boredom, the depression. It's what caused his reliance to the drugs, and it wasn't something that could be cured by sitting in a circle with a bunch of strangers, a bunch of imbecile strangers who believed they were on the same level as Sherlock. And perhaps, in some ways, they were. But Sherlock wouldn't believe for an instant he was on equal footing with the rest of society. They were too simple. "It's not even an option."

John let his elbows rest on the table and his head went into his hands, fingers rubbing his eyes through closed eyelids. His nose and jaw were still sore as hell from Sherlock punching him and he was starting to get a headache around his eyes and temples. "Would it _really _be so detrimental to your pride to go to _one_ session with me? _For_ me? One bloody hour of your time. I'm not asking you to get clean from it, I'm asking you to go and spend one hour and just shut the hell up and listen to people talk. I know you think they're all idiots and that they're 'beneath you', but you're all struggling with the same damn idiot problem, yeah? If I were you and I thought that I was better than them, I'd be dying for the opportunity to prove it by getting clean and leaving them all in the dust. Instead you're being a coward and won't even try. Who's the real idiot here?" Not for the first time since arriving, John thought about how much easier it would be to just get up and go. Get a cab to the airport and get on the next plane to the Isle of Man, go back home to his job, his flat, to Mary. As tempting as the option was, John knew that he would feel guilty about it until the day he died.

"I suppose it would do me no harm," Sherlock conceded after a long moment of silence in which he only stared at John, seeing the way the man was getting irritated and identifying what was perhaps a headache by his facial expression. He turned his gaze away, arms still crossed defensively over his chest as he looked out the window into the dark of the London night, partially lit by buildings still running at this hour. "If you must insist upon it, I'll go to keep you quiet." Sherlock sighed and picked up his water, taking a sip as he evaded John. There wasn't much more to say beyond that. So long as he did what John wanted, John would leave, right? A slow itch began to form in the back of Sherlock's brain, slowly rising to the front until it became unbearable. "If you'll excuse me," he muttered as his eyes shifted for the bathroom where he could discreetly have a fix.

That was another problem, John thought to himself as Sherlock stood up and made a beeline for the bathroom. He would keep taking his little hits discreetly, slipping into the bathroom, behind a door, into the kitchen. John knew that there was no way he could make that stop unless he watched Sherlock 24/7. That wasn't an option, was it? At this point, no. Sherlock wouldn't go along with the idea. Perhaps after a bit of time he'd be more willing, when the urges were getting their worst but he had made enough progress to want to make more. John was incredibly tempted to go into the bathroom and knock the cocaine out of Sherlock's hand and flush it down the toilet, but it wouldn't matter. Sherlock had more, and if he didn't, he would _buy_ more. Plus he'd just got the man to agree to a therapy session and if John pulled a stunt like getting rid of his cocaine, all hope of that happening would be lost. So, John did nothing. He sat at the table and finished his water, asked the waitress for two boxes, and paid their bill.

After reviving his high, Sherlock escaped from the bathroom in a manner that could easily be described as shady, opening the door just enough to slip through and his eyes looking frantically around. His behavior as a whole was quite dodgy, as to be expected from someone who just discreetly stuffed their nostrils with cocaine. But after a moment Sherlock settled back into his skin and eased down, beginning to feel more normal as he approached John. When he had, he saw the two boxes and the paid bill. "I see you're ready to go," he muttered in a calmed and relaxed tone. He realized then that he wasn't exactly taking the cocaine to be high, but rather to be normal, but he forced the thought away to be pondered later, not liking it the least. Sherlock grabbed his coat and pulled it on, clearing his throat as he jammed his hands into his pocket. "Shall we go, then?"

John nodded and stood up, trying to ignore the bit of powder that was lingering under Sherlock's nose, ignore the way his eyes were wide and alert, the way his voice sounded raspy. They walked out of the restaurant side by side, but John paused when they exited, lingering uncomfortably by the door. He still didn't want to be too far away from Sherlock, but the detective had caught him in his 'master plan' of sleeping outside the motel room. He decided to ask Sherlock point-blank instead of beating around the bush. That way, whatever the end decision was, he wouldn't feel bad about it. "Do you want me to go to Baker Street? Since, you know...there's only one bed at the motel." He wasn't entirely on-board with the idea in case Moriarty went to Baker Street. Last time Moriarty had abducted John, Sherlock had been on top of his game; this time, it would be a criminal mastermind versus a crackhead. Not exactly a fair fight, and John didn't care for the likely ending in that scenario.

As Sherlock walked out of the Chinese restaurant, wiping away the white powder that lingered beneath his nose, he realized John had stopped with a nearly distressed appearance. He paused as John asked him if he wanted him along, and the detective couldn't quite think of an answer. If John went to Baker street, there was no doubt he would be concerned about Sherlock, especially considering how the man had gone to lay down outside his motel room for the night. If he stayed, it would bring John some modicum of comfort in Sherlock's safety, as well as feeling as though he's got an eye on the detective. The sooner John was content with Sherlock's behaviors, the sooner he would leave and Sherlock could be left to rot in peace. Then again, if John should catch him taking drugs in the middle of the night, he would certainly be very discontent. About as discontent if he were staying at Baker street. "If you'd like to come along, you may. I have no opinion in the matter."

With another curt nod, John turned and walked alongside Sherlock back to the motel. They walked into the brightly lit lobby and both men winced. Sherlock's high and John's headache made the light extremely unpleasant to their senses. They got to the room and John unlocked the door, opening it for Sherlock. He followed the man inside the room and locked both locks on the door. Moriarty could easily find them if he so desired to, but at least the locks would make it an inconvenience for him. John frowned when his eyes settled on the bed. It was smaller than he remembered, and there was only one pillow. One usable one anyway; the second had a heavy yellow stain on it and John wasn't willing to put it beneath his head. He went to the bed and slipped under the covers, propping his head up on his arm. He knew he would regret it; his back and shoulder hurt like hell if he wasn't able to prop them up. However, he had been willing to sleep on the floor, and this was a step up, albeit a small one. John was too exhausted to say anything to Sherlock, especially since he knew it would more than likely escalate into an argument. He moved as close to the edge of the bed as he could and pulled the blanket over his shoulder.

Seeing the way John went immediately for the bed, Sherlock quickly did the same, stopping only to take off his coat and his shirt, feeling overly warm as he settled into the bed beside John. Regardless of his heat, he knew later he would end up feeling colder and so he suffered the discomfort of the blanket for now, so to feel better later. He said nothing as he tried to settle in, knowing it wouldn't be all too long before John fell asleep. He tried to remember the last time they had shared a bed together some ages ago on a case, but it was information he'd likely deleted though he knew it to have happened at least once. Sherlock took the only pillow available since John had used his arm instead and tucked it beneath his head, turning his back to John so that he wouldn't feel compelled to acknowledge him, or rather acknowledge his presence as a whole. Closing his eyes, Sherlock tried to phase into sleep with no success.

John's thoughts were drifting all over the map as he lay on the bed. Mary. Sherlock. The flu epidemic on the Isle of Man. Moriarty. Sherlock. His sister. The coldness of the motel room. The fact that he wanted to buy his own car when he returned home. DI Lestrade. Sherlock. His days as a soldier, when they would share cots or sleep side-by-side at night in the desert. God, it got cold at night. So cold. Men often got ill because they wore as little as possible during the days and didn't get dressed properly at night. John had never had that problem; he was smarter than that. He was miserably hot in the daytime but managed to stay warm at night by wearing the same clothes in both conditions. He shuddered as a cold chill shot through his body, so intense that John was sure he made the entire bed rattle. He knew Sherlock was still awake as well; his breathing wasn't steady yet, not as it would be when he was asleep. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. He didn't know what to say. Nothing seemed appropriate right now.

As Sherlock kept his eyes closed, trying to summon sleep to his mind, he felt a slight shaking of the bed. Nothing like movement to get up, something more subtle, as though the bed was trembling. Perhaps John was cold? As he thought it over, Sherlock realized that seemed to be the only option unless John was shuddering at something else, and despite being overly warm, he shifted back on the bed, his back touching to John's. It was, if John was cold, a way to keep him warm some as his body heat radiated against John, but if it was fear, perhaps his presence was more or less a comfort. If not, John would certainly speak up. Once he had resettled, Sherlock still remained silent, focusing on John's breathing, which was slower than his and trying to match it in an attempt to lull himself into a state that wanted to sleep. His buildup of exhaustion still did nothing to make him want to rest, though following John's breathing was making his eyes grow heavier.

John didn't move when Sherlock scooted slightly closer to him. On the contrary, it was quite comforting. John turned his head a little, lifting it up from the nook of his arm. "If we're going to sleep this close, can we share the pillow?" Another army lesson-no privacy. Privacy was for civilians. Privacy could get you killed. Without waiting for Sherlock's answer, John lifted his body until he was closer to the headboard and his head automatically found the half of the pillow Sherlock wasn't using. Sherlock's dark hair and John's gray and blonde seemingly thread itself together. He heard Sherlock's breathing slow and sighed, content for the first time in three days. It seemed they were actually going to get some sleep. Perhaps it was the proximity, the physical contact making John feel like he needed to say something, but he opened his mouth and muttered, "You're still my best friend." It was a simple statement, but important. He wanted Sherlock to know it, and he wanted to admit it to himself.

At John's question, Sherlock moved a bit closer and shifted his head, and it was as though the man was already aware that he wouldn't protest. As John moved into Sherlock's personal space, the detective couldn't find anything to really protest about and so he remained quiet, slowly drifting off. He snapped awake at John's sentence however, the simple and punctuated words resounding in the eerie silence of the room. For a long moment, Sherlock didn't say anything, his heart seizing in his chest a few times as he let the statement sink in. "You're still mine," Sherlock admitted as well after swallowing a bit of his pride. "I suppose you're the only best friend I've had. And I believe you still are."

John chuckled softly, a tiny smile playing on his lips. "Look at that. You admitted to something so heartfelt and yet you're still alive. Feel free to remember this incident for future use." John often reacted to emotional situations with sarcasm, as Sherlock did, although his lacked the harsh bite that the detective's contained. It was more of a way of deflecting than a way of actually hurting the other in self-defense. "Thank you," John finished. His eyes drifted shut and he began to dream, not of the war, not of Mary, not of Sherlock. Truthfully he didn't remember what he dreamed about, but they were soothing enough to keep him asleep until the morning.

With a bitter face, Sherlock clicked his tongue in discontent at John's comment and pulled the blanket closer to himself, resolving never to be so heartfelt again. However, John's words weren't laced with a teasing venom as the man expected it to. At the thanks, Sherlock said nothing, too busy mentally debating if saying 'you're welcome' was considered heartfelt in this situation. By the time he had decided it had, John had managed to slip into sleep, judging by the faint snore and the heavy breathing. After a few minutes for John to settle into his REM cycle, Sherlock turned around carefully, staring at the back of John's head when he did and frowning slightly at it. This felt so natural. So correct. John's presence made him more normal than the drugs ever could, and he knew that. Maybe getting clean was a better idea. Maybe being clean would help him return to a self-sustained 'normality'. Before he had time to decide, Sherlock too drifted into sleep, a heavy one made to make up for as much of the sleepless nights he'd stockpiled already.

When John woke up, Sherlock was still lying beside him, facing him now. His eyes were shut and he was still breathing slowly, deep in sleep. John lifted himself as slowly and quietly from the bed as he could and pulled the comforter over Sherlock's shoulder to ensure that he stayed warm enough. It was just after nine A.M. John opened his laptop, which was sitting on the motel desk, and was about to research group therapy sessions when he saw Sherlock's phone sitting on the dresser. Unable to contain his curiosity, John pressed the center button to see if Moriarty had sent Sherlock any texts. He had. It was a simple message, stating, 'It is finished.' Poetic. John checked his e-mail and then decided to do something else before looking for therapy groups-he went and looked at his old blog. He had nearly one-hundred notifications from strangers asking why he hadn't updated, why Sherlock wasn't solving crimes, if they had broken up-that one made him roll his eyes-or if one of them had fallen ill or died. John wished that he had some profound quote that he could put up, something to encourage himself and the readers, but only one thing came to mind. It was simple, but perfect. He clicked on 'New Post' and then typed the only thing running through his mind:

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

It must have been hours after John had awoken that Sherlock followed suit, the man noticing the bed was vacant and cool, and John was avidly researching something judging by the expression on his face. "Morning.." he muttered as he sat up and ran a hand through his hair, though he wouldn't be terribly surprised if it was somewhere in the afternoon already. He moved to the side of the bed, reaching for his phone and checking the notifications. An opened message from Moriarty. Sherlock glanced at John, but said nothing before going to read it and releasing a relieved sigh. He sent no reply to the man, however, instead checking his other notifications. An email message from Lestrade, and one regarding an update to the only blog Sherlock had ever bothered to follow: The Personal Blog of Dr. John Watson.

As he stared at the latest post, written much earlier this morning, Sherlock said nothing, stunned. Initially, Sherlock began to follow the blog as a means to criticize and harass John about the writing of their adventures, but since the man had left it had been a long time since anything had gone up on the blog. But to read that even now, John believed in him... He didn't say a word, choosing to lock his phone as he stood before tossing it on the bed. He went to the miniature refrigerator of the hotel room and retrieved his lo mein, eating it cold from the takeaway box. His head hurt and he was in cold sweats, and he was so hungry he felt as though he were eating himself alive with any movement.

"Afternoon," John mumbled in response to Sherlock's greeting. His attention was currently being consumed by a very promising group therapy session he had found. It wasn't affiliated with any 12-step program or religious organization, which he knew that Sherlock would appreciate. Hell, John appreciated it himself. He believed in God, yes, but it would do no good to press that method upon a man that didn't. He heard Sherlock walk behind him and open the fridge to retrieve his lo mein. That was surprising. Not only was he eating, but he was eating immediately after waking up, not even bothering to shower or wash his face first. Substituting one craving for another, perhaps? It was a likely answer. John shut his laptop and stood, stretching his arms over his head before approaching Sherlock.

"How do you feel?" he asked in a gentle voice. It wasn't a question from doctor-to-patient, it was a question from a man to another man who were in a broken relationship that they both wanted to repair, even though they had no clue of why or how. Sherlock was pale and sweating; his hair was damp with it. As he lifted food to his mouth, John could easily see that the man's hand was shaking. This made John frown. Sherlock had slept for ten hours and he was already experiencing cocaine withdrawal. He leaned down behind the detective and grabbed the thin blanket, pulling it up and letting it rest on Sherlock's shoulders. "Do you need anything?"

"I am just peachy," Sherlock drawled between a mouthful of lo mein, not looking at John as the man inspected him. That's what it felt like, anyhow. An inspection. John was prodding at his wellbeing to see how fit it was. Sherlock was tempted to run into the bathroom and take a wake-up hit, but he resisted. His body protested and shook violently for a brief moment. John put a blanket over his shoulders, but Sherlock promptly shrugged it off. He didn't need John's attentive care, not right now. Sherlock moved and settled on the edge of the bed, taking slow mouthfuls of food and chewing them just as slowly. "I don't need anything. Scratch that, coffee. Get me coffee." It helped last time. Developing a caffeine addiction helped substitute the addiction Sherlock was already facing, and later dropping caffeine down to just a cup or two of tea a day was easy from there. Sherlock was pale and drawn and looked cold, but he sat still, barely looking to John. He didn't want to. In fact, every passing second made him want John gone more and more, the man exhausted by his presence and more so reminded somewhat of Victor, though the body had been taken care of. How would he ever face the Yard again? At that thought, Sherlock smirked, scoffed and shook his head. Like he was ever going to get to face the Yard again. Even if Lestrade let him take cases, the endless jeering of Anderson regarding his relapse because Sherlock's "boyfriend ran off" would be too much to bear.

"All right, coffee. I can do that. But you're going to have to settle for what's in the room. I had it this morning and it's total shit." John went into the bathroom and got some water boiling in the machine before filling a filer with the cheap grounds. It was only a moment before it started to percolate. John took the opportunity to stare at his reflection in the mirror. God, he looked old. So fucking old. A forty-one year old man who looked sixty. Then again, he was always critical of himself. The gray hairs that he hated so much, Mary said made him look handsome. The wrinkles were lines of experience. His tired eyes meant that he was dedicated to his job. She had the talent of always knowing just what to say to make him feel better, which was something that Sherlock lacked in the extreme. Rather, Sherlock lacked the desire to even try. Although...Sherlock had hugged him after his hallucination the other day. Then again, he was high, and therefore not himself. John shook his head, forgetting about the thoughts. They were too extreme for him to deal with, and besides, the coffee was ready. He dumped two sugar packets into the glass and brought it to Sherlock. "Here. What are your plans for the day?" Asking a druggie their plans was normally a redundant question, but John never knew what to expect from Sherlock.

Sherlock eagerly accepted the cup of coffee, spilling just some of it as he took it from John and frowning as he did so. "I have no plans," he said as he brought the mug to his lips and blew across the surface, cooling the dark liquid before taking a sip and making a face. It was watery, not flavorful and clearly of a cheap brand. "Brilliant.." he muttered before hurriedly downing the entire mug, the heat burning along his throat and settling warmly into his stomach. It may not be a high, but on the first day without drugs, it was something his body would accept for a little while. He moved to pass the glass back to John, taking a look at him for the first time and seeing the exhaustion that had settled into his eyes, the way his hair was developing frays of grey. For a long moment, he stared before turning to the window. "You look old," he muttered, though it was just as much of a compliment as an insult. It was Sherlock recognizing not only the fact that John was changing, but acknowledging that these changes had come from hard work. It was difficult to see happen, but he knew the work kept John content and judging by the man's health, so did other things. "I suppose my plans are to go back to Baker Street," he sighed, since Victor's place was no longer an option. Sherlock debated texting Jim, asking him what he had done to Victor. But he decided it wasn't something he really wanted to know after all.

John rolled his eyes when Sherlock gave him back the empty mug, then rolled them further when he was told he looked old. As if he didn't already know that. "Charming," he said acerbically. "Really, Sherlock, thank you for drawing attention to my looks, which have begun to deteriorate even faster than before." He returned to the desk and set the empty mug down before lowering himself into the chair and sliding a calloused hand down his face. "I don't know why I'm even bothering with this," he told Sherlock with a mirthless snort of laughter, "but if you ever want to talk about what happened last night, it's fine. I've killed people in self-defense too. I know it's a bloody awful feeling, but talking helps. It helped me, anyway." The situation wasn't entirely the same, John knew. It wasn't against any rules for him to kill those that he did. No legal rules, anyway-he had broken quite a few rules of his own moral code. Going back to Baker Street seemed like a good idea. At least there was proper coffee there. Sherlock didn't mention going to anyone else's house, which made John think that he truly didn't have anyone else. That was a good thing, really, because it could potentially lead to him falling back on John entirely. Clearly that wasn't what John wanted, not in the long run, but it _would_ make Sherlock easier to deal with. Withdrawal was a bitch

Sherlock was about to make a sharp retort when John brought up last night and some feeling of discontent slid slowly through his stomach like a coiling snake. Suddenly, there was a lacuna in his thinking and Sherlock's mind was white smoke, television static. All noise but no sense. No. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to think about it. In fact, as soon as he was capable of it, Sherlock was planning to delete it from the recesses of his mind and never have to deal with it again. Once John finished speaking, he put down the lo mein and he stood up to snag his long, dark coat, pulling it over his arms and going to the door of the hotel room. Before John could so much as protest, Sherlock was out of the door and heading down the hallway, Baker Street being his destination. The sickness in his stomach originated from his withdrawal, but it intensified to the point of vomiting at the ill feeling John's words had left in him, so he grabbed the edges of a lobby trashcan and emptied his stomach. This time, it was far worse than sick he felt recently. Because then, it was mostly bile and dry heaves. Now, it was dizzying, painful, and seemingly endless thanks to eating not minutes before. Once finished he moved to the door and pushed his way out, going to hail a cabby before he realized he had next to no cash to speak of. Sherlock began to walk home.

John so badly wanted to scream, to punch the wall, to rip up the pillow, break the bathroom mirror. Sherlock had left-AGAIN-and, again, John didn't see a point in following him. He knew Sherlock was going back to Baker Street and he could easily follow, but then what? If Sherlock vomited and began choking on it because he was lying down unconscious on the floor, John could save his life. And then what would he do the next time it happened? Save his life again. And again. And again. It would be a constant event. Looking after Sherlock Holmes was a full-time job, and that was _before_ the drugs. John was sick of staring at the four walls of the dingy motel room so he stood up and began packing what little he had brought. On his way to the front desk to check out, he smelled something horrid. It didn't take him more than a second to realize it was coming from the trashcan. Vomit. Lo mein vomit, Sherlock's vomit. Fantastic. He caught a cab to take him to Baker Street but, after only a few moments of riding, saw a familiar figure walking on the sidewalk. "I'll get off here, please," he told the cabbie. The taxi came to a halt and John three a tenner at the driver before hopping out and joining Sherlock, not saying a word, just being there in case he was needed.

When John hopped out of a passing cab, Sherlock paused on the sidewalk and stared at the sky, as if questioning the will of a higher power, if he believed in a higher power apart from himself. What he was actually doing was attempting to reign in his impatience, taking a slow, steady breath before continuing to walk again, knowing John was on his heels. After approximately five minutes of this, Sherlock spun on his heel and glared into John's eyes in a nearly challenging manner, though his face denoted poignant emotion. "What are you following me for?" Sherlock demanded to know with no small amount of displeasure. "Tell me. Because from what I can tell, me not using is the only thing to keep you away, correct? Well, I'm not using. So leave me alone." He tried very hard to bite back his next comment, the words poison on his tongue, but they stung to much to keep inside. "You're creating an environment where I want to use. So go." He didn't move, simply staring hard into John's eyes while simultaneously wishing he was at his apogee when it came to John, as far away as possible.

John set his overnight bag on the ground in front of him so that he could cross his arms, legs locking into place. Sherlock was trying to intimidate him, Sherlock was trying to anger him, Sherlock was trying to frustrate him. He was already angry and annoyed, but he would never_—never—_be intimidated by the man. "I'm following you because you're an idiot." John told him. "I'm following you so that you don't pass out and choke on your own vomit and die. I'm following you so that you don't collapse and crack your skull on the pavement. I'm following you so that you don't kill anyone else in self-defense, or at least what your doped-up mind perceives to fighting off a threat. I'm following you so that you don't get arrested and taken to prison where you'll be sodomized, beat, and told what to do and how to do it and when to do it. You won't be able to to take a piss without somebody watching you. You think _I'm _obnoxious? You don't like _me_ taking care of you? Just wait until you get there. Mycroft and Lestrade aren't going to protect you forever, Sherlock. I'm their last hope for you. If you don't listen to me, they're going to give up." It felt good to get that off his chest, but he doubted Sherlock would care. He'd never worried about his own health or safety, but perhaps having his freedom taking away would be enough to tempt him to get-and stay-clean.

"I'm not _on _anything right now," Sherlock growled before clenching his fists and pressing them to his forehead, ducking his head down as he struggled to calm down. "I don't _care_ if I get sent to prison, John. I don't care about any of this anymore, don't you comprehend that? I don't care about being clean or not, hungry or not, being on drugs or not. I don't care about the work, the experiments, the cases. I don't care about Lestrade and Mycroft and.." he hesitated, dropping his fists. "And I don't care about you or your damn perfect life on the Isle of Man. I don't have _anything _left, John. Casework is dull, composition is uninspired, experiments are fruitless. What will I do when I'm clean? I'll sit around the flat, staring out the window, plucking at my violin but never ,making any music." Sherlock leaned back from John, bringing his hands up to turn up his coat collar as he shifted his eyes away, expression angry, but rather vapid. "I can choke on my vomit, I can collapse on the sidewalk. I can overdose and die and it would simply be getting to the endgame a bit faster than everyone else. So if you'd just leave me to it, I'd be appreciative."

"What do you care about, then? If you're so far gone that you don't even care about or get excited about the possibility of going back to your old self, Sherlock, I don't see how I can help you. I truly don't." He held his hands out a little and glanced around where they were standing. "And yet, I'm still here. If I was only here to get Mary off my back, I would have taken up your offer to stay in a hotel for a few days. If I was only here for Mycroft and Lestrade, I would have come to you a single time, taken no for an answer, and then got the hotel. Instead I'm following you around. Tell me this, Sherlock, tell me this one thing." John stepped closer to Sherlock and lowered his voice to keep his words between the two of them. "What would you have done last night if I hadn't been willing to come? Would you have killed yourself? Taking another's life is a life-changing experience, no doubt about it. Some people can't deal with it. _I_ couldn't deal with it." John's brow furrowed and he shook his head while releasing a shaky sigh. "I couldn't deal with it...until I met you. I came back from Afghanistan depressed to hell and riddled with guilt, and what did I do the day after meeting you? _killed_ for you, and I didn't feel the least bit guilty about it. Because of _you._ I did it for you because I _care_. I'm sorry you don't care about me enough to at least try and make your life worth living." John lifted his bag and pushed past Sherlock. He wanted to go to the airport. He wanted to go home. He was exhausted and couldn't take it. It was all too much, he had let Sherlock down, he had let Mary down, he had let himself down. He'd let his parents down, Harry down, Sarah, Jeanette, the Afghani civilians, his patients, the men under his command...

John paused as his eyes started to dampen. His head was throbbing and he bit his bottom lip so hard that it began to bleed. He could feel his cheeks getting wet but saw no point in trying to stop them; more tears would follow. When was the last time he had cried...years. It had been years. When he had come back to London and had his first flashback, he'd woken up crying, and that had been the last time. Now it was more than that. The memories of war plus all the failures of his personal and professional life were coming back to haunt him, to consume him.

A concept that John didn't seem to consider, nor Sherlock seemed to realize and comprehend, was the idea that he life was no longer worth the effort because he did care. Because John had left to the Isle of Man and never spoke to Sherlock, and suddenly the world came crashing down in duller hues, the one person he'd come to care more about than his cases, than his work having had vanished. But this never crossed the detective's mind as he stepped forth and followed John, heaving a sigh as though he were the most inconvenienced individual on the face of the earth. He slid his arm around John, hooking himself to the other as he steered him towards Baker Street, remaining wordless for the better part of a few, far stretched minutes. He turned to see John's eyes reddened with tears and inwardly cursed himself for being so harsh. Mistake after mistake, and it all made him want to get back into the gear-turning power of the drug, but perhaps in private. At a point when John wasn't around. Sherlock doubted his ability to quit, and he was torn between getting clean to force John away and staying addicted to chain John here. He certainly wouldn't put it past himself. "Whatever you want, then," Sherlock sighed as he stared ahead a bit listlessly. "Just don't expect me to revert back to my old self." If he could, he would do everything in his power to prevent that. Sherlock used to be terribly reliant on John, and doing so again would surely add more meaning to his life, but would make it worth little of the effort when John was torn away from him again. He needed to become who he was before he met John, the person so thoroughly enveloped in being sociopathic, emotionless, and independent. Though finding a reason why that was worth it was difficult.

"Whatever I want," John repeated, snorting with sarcastic laughter. "I'm sure. What I want is for you to go to therapy like you said you would. There's one meeting tonight. It's not religious, it's not got anything to do with a 12-step program, and there's no obligations. You just go and listen. And yes, I'll warn you about this now, they _will_ expect you to introduce yourself and tell a bit of your story." John didn't need Sherlock back to his old self, he didn't think. Truthfully, he wasn't sure what Sherlock even meant by that. He had been told by Donovan and Lestrade that John had dramatically improved Sherlock's behavior, which John found almost impossible to believe. Sherlock was a complete ass: selfish, inappropriate, cold-hearted, lazy. He had his good qualities too, of course, but they came out about as often as a lunar eclipse. "I just want you to get better," John said softly. He reached up and roughly rubbed his eyes and cheeks to brush the tears away, furious at himself for allowing them to come in the first place. Well, he hadn't 'allowed' them as such, but it was still embarrassing. He subconsciously allowed himself to shift closer to Sherlock when the detective had wrapped his arm around his shoulders. Sherlock's attempt at an apology? Yeah, he'd go with that. "I'm not delusional, though," he continued. "I know group therapy won't help you on its own, so tell me: what will it take for you to get better? What will it take for you to _want_ to get better?" They arrived at 221B, but John gripped Sherlock's coat to prevent him from going into the flat and abandoning the conversation. "Tell me."

At the thought of going to a therapy meeting, Sherlock groaned and shook his head, but he knew it was inevitable. He let John continue, gaze still straight ahead as he listened to the man's question. The first thing that came to mind was for John to stay, and his head clung to that with a fury. _For you to stay_, Sherlock nearly blurted, the words hovering on the tip of his tongue. But if John stayed, he'd be abandoning.. happiness. The sort he wouldn't get with Sherlock. A sensation coursed through him that felt foreign, but at least Sherlock could identify it with regret. "I don't know," he admitted with a nonchalant shrug, knowing that most of the things that addicts went to for help appealed to sentiment, and other things Sherlock didn't have a firm grasp on. He was a vagarious man, and such things had little to no effect on his psyche. "I don't think there is anything to make me want to get better. It seems like I'm rather glum, doesn't it? It's not as though I'm depressed, I just find that there's no good to come of getting better." Only the bad hovered in his mind, the hurt of being reliant on someone else, on John again. It wouldn't end well.

John sighed but nodded. He wasn't at all surprised that Sherlock didn't have an answer for him. "Maybe therapy will help you come up with one, yeah?" He slipped his hand into Sherlock's coat pocket and pulled out the keys to the flat, unlocking it and pushing it open, nodding for Sherlock to go in first. John sighed again when Sherlock's arm left his shoulders. He was both disappointed and relieved. Both times Sherlock had given him physical contact, first the hug and then the arm, it had made him feel worlds better, but it was also so awkward. They had never been the type to touch each other; John wasn't even like that with his girlfriends. He closed the door and locked it, then thanked his lucky stars that Mrs. Hudson didn't appear to be at home. As they walked up the steps, John told Sherlock, "Therapy's at six. If you're feeling up to it, we could get something to eat before or after. Something light." John went up to his bedroom and once again caught sight of the foreign language written all over the walls; he had meant to ask Sherlock what he'd written but it had slipped his mind. He grabbed his prescription pad from the desk drawer-thankfully _that_ hadn't been destroyed-and returned downstairs. "I'm going to get you an antiemetic for the nausea. I think cold turkey will be best for you, but we'll ask about it tonight, yeah? If that's what they recommend I'll write out a few more." As he wrote out the prescription on his pad, he said, without looking up, "Sherlock, that writing you did on the walls of my room-what does it say?"

Sherlock had only been half paying attention to what the doctor was saying, beginning to tune him out as he always did. He turned and closed the door to the flat, his eyes catching sight of the note over the hole the doorknob left in the wall the day John slammed it open. The one that Sherlock spent ages stuffing cigarette butts into as a means to block out the memory, stub out the fact that it happened at all. He heard John go on about the languages on the walls, but only partially as he narrowed his eyes at the note. "Text me," he read out loud as he looked at it before realizing that the placement of his words made it seem like the answer to John's question about the wall. He looked to the man, only to catch sight of his confused expression. "Not the walls, the note you left," Sherlock said as he peeled away his coat and hung it up, going into his room for a brief moment and locating a pack of cigarettes. He craved one of the cancerous sticks when he saw them lining the hole. Still a better addiction than the cocaine, he supposed. "As for what the walls say.. I wouldn't worry too much about it," Sherlock said as he glanced at one particularly foul sentence written out in Polish and another one written in Korean. He sighed and shook his head as he began to go about and read each one, the next more sobering than the previous.

"I left that before I left last night. For when you came back. Just, you know...in case you came back to Baker Street and needed anything. I wanted you to know you could ask me. You did it without seeing the note, though, so I guess you already knew." That was a pleasant realization, that Sherlock trusted him enough to ask for his help after murdering someone. Granted his options of who to contact were limited, but John was going to take what he could get. "Can you read them to me?" John asked. "They're in my room, I can only assume they're about me." He paused and chuckled. "Then again, I suppose it's rather silly of me to ask you to read them. You could make something up and I'd have no bloody clue. Exactly how many languages can you speak, anyway?" John was trying to get a bit of normalcy back into their conversation, and what better way to do that then asking Sherlock to brag about himself? He said nothing as Sherlock lit the cigarette and placed it between his lips. They were unhealthy as hell and smelled foul, but cigarettes wouldn't kill him for a while, whereas any hit of cocaine could make his heart stop. The fags were definitely the lesser of two evils.

Sherlock frowned and looked about the flat with a hum, realizing quickly that the bigger the letters, the angrier the words. Best to leave the big ones out of it then. He began looking through the smaller phrases, not so much foul as they were sad and lonely encouragements or notations of hatred. "I speak more languages than I care to count.. Not all of it is about you, though, admittedly, some of it is." he paused as he picked out a phrase in Italian and sighed over it, the sentence being the least harmful in retrospect. "They're mostly about me.. 'Non ho paura essere di soli'," he read aloud as though he were plucked directly from Florence. He paused before offering a translation. "I am not afraid to be alone." Sherlock stared at it for a while, inhaling on his cigarette sharply and blowing the smoke out against the letters like a filthy bellow, the smoke fading away as Sherlock stubbed his cigarette out over 'Non', changing the meaning of the sentence entirely. He dropped the cigarette butt on the floor once it smoldered out and sighed as he turned around and leaned against the wall, looking at John. "You don't want to hear the rest."

"Don't I?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. "I'm actually rather fascinated. And, I want you to prove that you can read all these. _And_ I want to make fun of your accents." He smiled at Sherlock and hoped and prayed that the man would smile back at his attempt to joke. I am not afraid to be alone. Why would he have written that? Sherlock wasn't alone; he had _never _been alone. He had friends, he just wouldn't admit to having them. Well, besides John. John was his best friend, his only one, as he had said last night. Mrs. Hudson would have taken care of him, and Molly. Lestrade would have stopped by to check in, Mycroft would have provided any material needs or treatments that Sherlock could ever dream of needing. But, no. John left, and Sherlock wrote 'I am not afraid to be alone'. "Are you alone without me?" John asked. "I don't mean that just in a 'we-lived-together-and-got-used-to-being-around-ea ch-other type of way. I mean...do you feel like you need me? Do you feel like you need me to be around?"

The question unsettled Sherlock not only because he didn't want to answer, but because of what the answer was. Yes, he felt alone without John, he felt vacant and dull. Of course there were other people, but John had managed to take of quite this cold void inside of Sherlock and made it warm and he felt so alone when that was taken from him. When he caused John to leave, but he only did it with hopes of having the man stay. "..What a vicious circle," he breathed before shaking his head. "Don't be ridiculous. I don't need anyone, John. It's a reminder. An assurance that it doesn't matter what happens because I am not afraid to be alone. I could alienate the world and I would be fine." Sherlock glanced behind John at a few other languages that dotted the room. Russian, Cantonese, Malay. "If I could write all of these, I think it should be proof enough I am capable of reading them. Especially considering I wrote most of these at points I don't recall, very high on numerous drugs."

John nodded, not bothering to hide the frown that was pulling on his lips. "Yes, yes of course you would be. You're doing great on your own." He pat Sherlock's shoulder and left his room, going into the kitchen and putting water on to boil. He hadn't eaten yet but there was nothing in the fridge, nothing in the cabinets but dry muesli. Once his tea had been made, he quickly swallowed down the cup. "I'm going out," he said, loud enough so that Sherlock could hear him. "I want something to eat and I'll drop off your prescription." He pulled his coat on and zipped it up, then helped himself to Sherlock's scarf. "I hope you'll be here when I get back." On that final statement, John turned and left the flat. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets once outside; the air was bitter cold and cut through his bare skin like knife. His first stop was the drug store, where he left the prescription with the attendant. Next he went to a nearby burger joint. It was delicious, satisfying, and made him feel normal. He got a burger to take home to Sherlock, just in case he was feeling hungry. After taking about twenty minutes to read the post that had been left on the table beside his, John returned to the pharmacy and selected a few items. Mouthwash. Mouthwash and...damn. Anything else he wanted to give Sherlock he wanted the very best. He had no problem telling his patients to take over-the-counter headache medications or Pepto to settle their stomachs, but he knew that Sherlock was going to have an incredibly difficult withdrawal and the best medication was needed. Mouthwash it was. He picked up the antiemetic prescription, paid for the mouthwash, and returned home. Home, no, that's not right. The flat. Sherlock's flat.


	8. Chapter 8

**This is a kind of sad chapter...poor John! I'd be so frustrated with Sherlock...not sure if I could stay. Anyway, this chapter is sad but it gets better, I promise! As always, my coauthor and I don't own Sherlock/Sherlock Holmes, we just own this story :) Enjoy and please R&R!**

When John left, Sherlock made a bitter face, but didn't protest as he man took his scarf, glaring slightly as John left with it. It had taken Sherlock an age and a half to find a scarf identical to the one John had torn up, and that was no small feat. He'd had the damn thing for years. And now, John was suddenly helping himself to Sherlock's things and making himself at home and Sherlock felt an angry roiling and an excited tittering in his stomach at the same time. Once John had completely gone, he turned to focus again on the walls, finding a particularly large message written in Russian that turned his heart icy. "Znayet koshka, ch'yo myaso s'yela," he mumbled aloud to himself, frowning as he back up and settled into his chair, which was facing the words rather directly. His mind quickly translated it into a common Russian proverb, meaning literally 'the cat knows whose meat it's eaten'. A guilty mind betrays itself. Although he didn't remember putting the words on the wall, he recalled spending a lot of time sitting in this chair, staring at the blaring Russian alphabet it spelled out into. And suddenly, he was overwhelmed. Sherlock retreated to his room and pulled free one of his stashes of drugs, quickly preparing his specialized seven percent cocaine solution before pressing it into his arm with a sigh of relief. A moment later, Sherlock was back in his chair, staring at the words until John came back, his body flooding with tranquility as it finally got what it so itched for.

John arrived home and went into his bedroom, jumping in surprise when he saw that Sherlock was still in there. "I-I thought you'd be asleep," he admitted. "Or, hell, just plain gone." He walked in front of Sherlock and was about to follow his gaze, but when he looked at the detective's eyes, he saw the dilated pupils, They weren't dilated when he left, he would have noticed. The other indicator was that Sherlock's right sleeve was rolled up whereas the left wasn't. John sighed softly and dropped his bag onto his bed before sitting down beside it. Cold turkey would probably be the best way, despite Sherlock's protests that he was sure to receive. All things considered, cocaine was one of the easiest drugs to simply stop. Withdrawal was a bitch as with any drug, but it wouldn't cause _too_ many psychotic episodes. Sherlock seemed deep in thought, so much so that John wasn't even sure if the man knew he'd returned, so he went downstairs, searching for something very specific in Sherlock's closet. ID cards of DI Lestrade. Copies of Mycroft's ID. John's extra prescription pads (he'd been wondering where those had disappeared to...), and, aha! finally the desired item. A pair of handcuffs with a tiny key attached. It was a long-shot, John knew. Sherlock was more than capable of breaking free, but he hoped that wouldn't happen. He took them into the sitting room and stuffed them underneath the cushion of his chair. Sherlock's behavior at the meeting tonight would determine if he used them; he wasn't about to have him disappear again. It was just after three o'clock and the meeting was due to start at six, so John made another cup of tea and flipped through one of Sherlock's books about old Russian submarines. He didn't hear a sound from his bedroom the entire time.

For some time, Sherlock simply sat there, unmoving, staring at the large letters that seemed to bombard him from where they were. He stared deeply into them, trying with an intense ferocity to figure out how he felt at the moment he wrote that. No doubt it was after his first high, it was one of the first things written on the wall. But was that how intense the guilt had become? So blaming and loathing and fierce? He could tell that he blamed his own mind from the fact he had written that statement as one of the first, blaming his guilt on himself and his actions on his guilt. When it hit him that he truly did feel guilt over the fact that he had caused John to leave, he felt a sharp twinge of despair in his chest. Sherlock shifted his eyes down to another language that appeared to attempt to reconcile his actions. "He would have left anyway," it read in artistic French, but it was smaller and far more insignificant in comparison to the angry Russian. Sighing heavily to himself, though the sound echoed with an ache through his head, his body already craving more cocaine, Sherlock stood, his bones aching as though he were twenty times older than he actually was, and he made his way downstairs. "I'd like some tea," he said in a bland monotone as he looked unblinkingly at John before taking a seat on the couch.

"Kettle's in there," John said, nodding his head towards the kitchen. He began giggling almost immediately afterwards. "Kidding. Sit tight, I'll make it for you." Sherlock looked like he was close to death; his skin was gray, sickly looking, and he was still sweating. His eyes looked to be sunken into his head and his hair, which was unruly and tangled, was matted down with sweat. John quickly put some tea on to boil, then left the kitchen and glanced at the other man. "I brought you a burger, did you see it up there? Want me to get it for you?" Sherlock drinking tea was unexpected. Just yesterday he'd told John that he didn't drink tea any longer, that it had been months since he'd had any. John prepared the tea to Sherlock's liking and went over to the couch, holding it out to him. "How's your stomach? Do you want one of the pills? They'll help with nausea, vomiting." The doctor side of him wanted to give the whole spiel of 'I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong', but he'd tried that before on Sherlock and had less and less success each time.

Sherlock basically ignored everything John said, not that it mattered. He wasn't the least bit hungry, despite it being wise that he put something in his system and he didn't care much for having medicine in general. He did pay attention to John, however, when the man hovered a cup of tea in front of him and he accepted it, the mug warm and inviting, the scent a heady herbal mixture that practically remedied Sherlock as he inhaled its scent. That was, however, all he did. As he stared into the liquid, the usual black dark of the tea having been lightened and made opaque by cream, Sherlock realized he'd asked John to make it because John was there to make it, not because he wanted tea, because he wanted John to make him tea. And so John had. It was so ridiculously domestic that as Sherlock stared into the mug, a low chuckle that sounded half mad rose into his throat, and he didn't look up. Instead, he contemplated ways to preserve the mug, to make a trophy to remind him how when John was here, he took advantage of his kindness and didn't pay gratitude to the things he did for Sherlock, large or small. Not that he was about to express his graciousness now.

"Um...okay," John said uncomfortably as he stood, returning to his chair and watching as Sherlock stared into the mug of tea. "I'm going to assume from that creepy laugh of yours that you're feeling fine. I'm glad to hear it." He wasn't in the mood to push medication or conversation on Sherlock, so he went back to reading his book. It was boring, God it was boring. John preferred novels, not nonfiction analyses of the construction of submarines. It seemed like the best of the worst, but he was regretting it. It was so strange to be sitting in his chair reading while Sherlock sat with tea which John had made. The next thing he knew he'd be going to get the shopping and doing _all_ the errands and _all_ the chores. At least Sherlock had an excuse now; he was sick as hell. He brought it upon himself, yes, but that didn't change the nature of the illness. He continued to read, going through chapter after chapter and learning more than he had ever cared to know about Russian subs. John could feel congestion forming in his chest—apparently his cold wasn't getting better as he'd thought. Sherlock sat and stared at his tea. John would occasionally glance over at the man to make sure he was still breathing, and he was. Probably in a zone from the cocaine or heroin, whatever he had just taken.

After a few more minutes of watching the way his breathing forced ripples into the surface of the tea, Sherlock set the mug aside, not at all appetized by the prospect of drinking it. He turned his head and looked at the book John was reading, about Russian submarines. Honestly, Sherlock had never had a use for that book, but he had gone and read it and memorized all of its contents anyway. In fact, Sherlock closed his eyes and entered the realm of his mind palace, searching through until he located the book, dusty and underused and commended himself for adding an aging appearance to everything in the now dilapidated palace. "I rather enjoyed reading about Project 641," he said as he opened his eyes again and glanced at John as he read the book. His voice shook a bit as he spoke, but just the slightest warble. "The B-39s were interesting submarines. The B stands for "large", did you know?" Sherlock chuckled slightly before closing his eyes again but letting his vision remain blank as he tilted his head back and tried to focus on something besides the whirling he was beginning to feel.

"Does it?" John asked, nodding. "I must've missed over that sentence. What was Project 641?" John was only slightly familiar with the name. Sherlock had actually spoken to him, of his own doing, and John wanted to keep that a regular thing. He was glad, when they lived together a month ago, that Sherlock wasn't the type to constantly need to talk. In fact, John preferred less talking to more sometimes. But this...these awkward silences between them (which, before their fight, weren't awkward at all) were getting to be too much. John's eyebrows furrowed when he saw the slightest hint of a wince in Sherlock's face. He resisted the urge to ask him if he was okay, but resolved to watch him and be ready if he were to need anything.

Sherlock opened his eyes again and trained them on John, sharp and cerulean and brilliant around the dilated pupils. He leaned forward a bit, looking at John. "Soviet Project 641 was the commissioning of the B-39 Soviet subs that in the early 1970s until they went out of commission some twenty years later. There's nothing particularly... spectacular about them. I just was amazed at how reliable they found the technology to be to use it for twenty years. NATO, the North Atlantic Treaty..." he paused at a fault in memory, not recalling the last portion of the acronym for a moment. "...Organization. Yes, NATO, they referred to its creation by the classified name Foxtrot." Sherlock stopped talking for a moment as he drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. That felt _good_. Exercising his mind and flexing his knowledge felt unbelievably good, like dusting cobwebs off of an old prize. And he hated how good it felt.

John smiled, unable to help himself. It was like old times, hearing Sherlock ramble on and on about various topics that John knew nothing about. "I'll bet that felt good. Showing off how much you know. It was impressive, quite impressive. You should do it more often." He drew no attention to Sherlock temporarily forgetting what the 'O' in NATO stood for; he had hardly noticed the delay. Sherlock's recollection speed was still incredible. "Why didn't you delete that?" he asked as he leaned back in his chair, genuinely curious. "Did you think you'd use it on a future case or something?" At that question, John started thinking about what they had discussed the night he'd come home and seen Sherlock shooting the wall out of boredom, shortly before meeting Jim Moriarty. Unable to resist the urge to tease the man, just in a playful fashion, John leaned forward, grinning. "Here, I have a question. I'm sure you'll know the answer-I can't seem to remember, Sherlock-does the earth go around the sun, or is it the other way round?"

At the prod at him, Sherlock narrowed his eyes and glared at John. "Before we met, I required it for a case. That was why I initially purchased the book, to use it as an identification bank when I encountered the submarine itself.." he sort of trailed off, his eyes glazing over as he reminisced the case some, having kept it in his mind as a precedent for some in the future. He frowned, realizing that back then it was much easier to be alone because he had yet to experience someone else's company in such a fashion where he'd developed a bond with said individual. Sherlock came back to reality a moment later and glanced at John. "Though I suppose I should delete it. It's of little use to me now, don't you agree?" he paused. "And I am well aware it is the Earth that revolves around the sun, alright? You established my weakness in astronomy ages ago, I get it. It was useful information once. But really, knowing the Earth revolves around the sun is not likely to be on a case. Something else, such as Sirius being the Dog Star and the brightest in the universe might. Generic information is of little use because the criminals that would think to do something intricate involving astronomy would no doubt pick something more intricate than the Earth cycling around the sun. Dull."

"A joke, Sherlock. I was teasing you. Remember, I used to do that." John looked at his watch-just about four o'clock. "We should head out soon. It'll take us twenty minutes to get there and we've got to find where the room is. I know it's in a community center but I'm not sure what door we're meant to go in or anything. Now I'm going to ask you again, do you want some medicine for your stomach? I can get you an aspirin or two if your head is hurting, anything like that?" Part of John was excited about the group therapy session and the other part of him was loathing it. He wasn't looking forward to how Sherlock would interact with the other addicts. Hell, part of him was hoping he would act as he often did and just keep his mouth shut and not say anything at all. It certainly made things easier some days. He wished he'd thought to buy other clothes while he was out early; the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. He was sick of wearing the same things. Day four now.

As he considered the possibility of taking medicine, Sherlock decided that the clenching and swirling in his stomach was far too much to bear, and that he knew that a bit of walking while feeling that nauseous would cause him to start to gag at the very least. "Stomach medication, not headache medication," he sighed as he closed his eyes briefly before moving to stand, slowly stretching his aching arms, feeling a small pulse of pain when the new track on his arm was tightened as the skin moved and began to sting as a result. Group therapy. Brilliant. Honestly, it was the last sort of therapy Sherlock wanted to attend, and he had a feeling that perhaps John was aware of it. But that's what the doctor was pushing and so, Sherlock had to attend if only to get the doctor to leave sooner. He paused, however, when his mind considered the possibility of being in these sessions more than once and he rejected the idea outright. "You're not intending to have me attend more than one of these meetings, are you?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

John went into the kitchen and retrieved one of the pills and a glass of water (Sherlock's tea had gone cold and he hadn't taken a single sip). "Here. Dinner should probably be a no-go then, at least before. We'll see how you're feeling afterwards." After Sherlock had taken the pills and water from him, John crossed his arms and frowned. Truth be told, he _hadn't_ been intending for Sherlock to go to more than one meeting. He had been thrilled that Sherlock was even consenting to just go to one, and John didn't think he'd have the same luck with him again the next week. There were meetings held every day at all hours; it would have been simple to suggest that Sherlock attend one each day. Simple to suggest, but impossible to carry out. "We'll see how tonight goes," he said as Sherlock swallowed the pill and chased it down with some water. "Maybe you'll actually _want_ to go back."

Sherlock accepted the pills and the glass, popping the tablets into his mouth before gulping them down with some water, listening to John. Want to go back? Not very damn likely. "I don't think so. I'm consenting to this meeting only because you insist. I have no intentions of attending another," Sherlock said as he passed the cup to John and walked to grab his coat. For a moment, he stopped and ran his fingertips over the woolen material, the familiarity of it warming and good. He rarely took the time to do things like that, but when he was approaching a time where he was encountering something foreign and unfamiliar, it felt promising to reassure himself with familiar things. A meeting of this type was not only entirely unfamiliar to Sherlock, but unwelcome, and he had no intentions to go back. In fact, as he pulled on his coat, he considered all the methods to be used as a preventative of his return.

"That's fine," John said as he accepted the glass. "We're just trying it out." Seeing as how Sherlock was ready to leave at that moment, John returned the water glass-and Sherlock's mug of tea-to the kitchen, pouring and rinsing them out before returning to the sitting room and putting his own coat over his shoulders. Sherlock's scarf was resting underneath it. Oops. He'd forgotten to put it back where he found it. "Here. Sorry. I-I borrowed that." John slipped his hands into his pockets and zipped his jacket up as far as it would go; it was so bloody cold out there. "Sherlock, I wanted to ask you-do you want me to stay, once we get there? Or would you be more comfortable if I waited outside?" It was a good question; sometimes addicts weren't comfortable with non-addicts attending meetings simply because they hadn't been there and, as such, couldn't empathize or understand, which made some people feel as if they were being judged.

"I would prefer your company," Sherlock said as he accepted the scarf, but didn't wrap it around his neck. Instead, he hung it up on the coat rack where he'd last left it and buttoned up his jacket. As much time and effort that went in to locating a scarf identical to his previous, the soft warmth of it around his neck served now as an irritant, reminding him of John and the way he'd angrily torn apart his other. But it was nice to have, it felt normal to own it and so he did. "I don't care very much for being in a room full of idiots, you see. It'll be dull if I have no one to talk to, don't you agree?" In all honesty, a small plot had begun to form in Sherlock's mind, and in order for it to have its full effect, John's presence was an absolute necessity.

Prefer his company. That was...almost sweet. John smiled and looked at Sherlock, the exact same look on his face as when he had been heading to a date with Sarah and Sherlock had offered to get milk so that he didn't have to. "Really? You actually want me to come?" He was flattered and glad to hear that Sherlock was lowering his defenses enough to admit that John's company would be a welcome addition to the therapy session. "I suppose it would be dull, for you. If you want to talk there, you can address it to me, of course. I'm sure everyone will be very friendly, Sherlock. Just go in there with an open mind. It's only an hour and a half."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a slight smirk on his face. "Of course they will be friendly. It'll be dreadful. They'll attempt to talk with me, I'll find it unbearable. An hour and a half of such sounds awful." Sherlock buttoned up his coat as he opened to door to the flat and slipped out with John, waiting for him to take the lead of the direction they were to head in. The entire time, gears were again turning in his head, drawing out the best manner in which Sherlock could get out of the hour and a half meeting, nevermind going to another one again. He recalled the way his demeanor seemed to embarrass John and of course cause him to scold him later when they get out of whatever shop or restaurant they were in. "Are we going to be taking a taxi?" Sherlock asked, his stomach still unsettled slightly, the pills working, but working slowly.

"Yeah," John said with a nod when they got outside. He approached the edge of the sidewalk, extending his hand as some cabs drove by. "Yeah, we'll take a taxi." A taxi slowed down and John stepped forward, pulling the passenger door open and motioning for Sherlock to get inside. He got inside after Sherlock and shut the door, telling the driver to take them to Green Man Community Center. After a few moments of sitting in silence, John licked his dry lips and looked at Sherlock. "You're going to behave yourself, right? Please?" All but begging, that was how he considered his words although, truthfully, he _was_ begging. It wasn't a question he expected Sherlock to answer, so he immediately asked another one. "Have you seen Lestrade a lot in this past month? How, um...how are he and his wife getting on?"

"They divorced not long after you left. A month and a half after, I suppose. Perhaps earlier. I care little for his personal affairs, however. I found him to be an irritant, and so I avoided contact with him as often as possible." Sherlock shrugged, though he had listened to Greg more closely than he let on. What he didn't want, however, was for John to be asking him what happened to cause the marriage that the two had been struggling to hold up to just collapse. But Greg's best friend had always been John, though he knew John had Sherlock as a closer friend. When what little support he had left vanished to the Isle of Man, the amount of effort Greg put into forgiving his wife's misgivings and keeping the marriage sustained vanished too. He discovered it was a lost cause, and perhaps for the best.

"Oh, that's a shame," John said as his brow furrowed. "They didn't seem to get along, ever. Poor bloke. I only met her once, but she seemed to be so critical of him. He couldn't even breathe without her telling him that he was doing it wrong. I guess they finally just hit their end, hmm?" A change of subject now, to something that would, perhaps, be more pleasant. "What about Mrs. Hudson, then? What's she been up to?" He was giving Sherlock the opportunity to not only speak but also to show off, to state what he had learned about these people be it through direct conversation (which John knew he had had little of in the past month) or through observation. "Is she still seeing that chef?"

For a long moment, Sherlock didn't say anything, simply looking down at his hands as he nestled into the seat. His expression flashed to one of mild regret for only a second before returning to his usual blank expression, but his eyes remained on his hands. "I know just about as much as you do," Sherlock said. Through the drugs, the dropping of cases, the loss and giving up of everything, Sherlock relinquished his deductive reasoning of other people, including Ms. Hudson. The only reason he knew that Lestrade's marriage had turned to shambles was because of a shouting fest the DI had had with Sherlock, initially pitting the blame on the man, needing an outlet. All throughout, however, Sherlock had been unresponsive. When Ms. Hudson came up to bring food for him, she only commented about his health, the mess of the home, how she wished he'd eat more. And Sherlock never bothered to look at her and figure out what had changed in her life. Truly, it was a period of absolute selfish behavior. "I can't imagine what I've put that woman through.." he sighed.

John noticed how silent Sherlock got, noticed how he wouldn't look up from his fingers. He seemed to actually be at a loss for words, and that never happened with Sherlock Holmes. Was he actually feeling guilt? Regret? Remorse? Don't draw attention to it, he told himself. Sherlock hated having his emotions brought to light. It didn't always stop John from doing it, but in a situation as delicate as this, it had to. "You can make it up to her," John said, leaning forward a little so that his head would be tilted at the same angle as Sherlock's. "The flat's clean now, right? You can keep it clean. You're eating again, trying to anyway. That will make her happy. And you're getting out. Going by what Lestrade told me, you've been out more with me in the past four days than you've gone out the whole months. That's great, Sherlock. It really is. I'm sure she'll be very happy."

Yes, yes, John was making a good point, but truly it was all a facade. It was all just something Sherlock was putting up to keep John satisfied more than anything else. And already, he was making the decision to leave Baker Street as soon as John left again. All the effort he was putting in now, going to a meeting, attempting to put the drugs away (to no success) it was all to the same end, but there was no reason to put in so much effort, was there? But his lack of effort was burdensome on Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, but there was a simple solution to remedy that and that was to leave. Then, they wouldn't feel responsible for Sherlock anymore. He didn't speak as he remained on the other side of the cab, his eyes seeming to be lost in thought.

Finally the cab arrived at the community center. John paid the man and slid out of the car, glancing at his watch. "It's nearly five thirty. Gives us some time to find it. He nodded towards a door that was just a bit away from a circular drop-off. John pointed to it and tapped Sherlock's shoulder to get his attention. The man was looking around, eyeing everything and everyone suspiciously. "I assume that's where we're meant to go in." He began walking towards it and could hear Sherlock trudging behind him. John opened the door and held it open for Sherlock, sighing softly with relief when John actually stepped inside the building. Thank God. That was a relief that he'd even come this far. "Okay, I guess we should just find somebody that works here and see where it is. We're looking for the Narcotics Support Group." John began walking down a short hallway, hoping that at the end of it would be a lobby or a front desk, something of the sort. "Come on, come with me."

Reluctantly, Sherlock followed, remaining silent but still eyeing the place with mild suspicion turned to interest. His gaze was not cautionary, but instead investigatory as he walked up behind John, following his footsteps, waiting for the man to locate the room. If he wanted Sherlock to do this, he was going to have to be the one to put in the effort of getting him there. Occasionally, Sherlock's eyes focused on a passing individual, carefully calculating their personal life by the way they walked, dressed, their facial expression. He supposed it was a warm up of sorts, and a grin splayed onto his face for a brief moment as he realized that his skill with deduction hadn't seemed to diminish with disuse. You never forget how to ride a bicycle, he supposed. "Are we there yet?" he asked in a very bored voice, eyes shifting to watch John for a moment.

Ah, good. As John had hoped, there was a welcome desk around the corner at the end of the hallway. A young red-headed girl looked up at him and smiled. "Hello, Sir, can I help you?" John reacted back with what was normal behavior for himself-flirting and genuine friendliness. "I'll bet you can," he said as he leaned down on the counter. "My friend and I are looking for your Narcotics group that's meeting tonight. Can you tell me what room it's in?" The woman nodded and opened a folder she had sitting in front of her, scanning through it. John couldn't help but take the opportunity to look at her cleavage, which was very visible through her low-cut shirt. "It's in room 214," he said, looking up, still smiling directly at John. "Just go up that staircase over there and it'll be directly ahead. I think they're already up there; they like to meet early for tea and biscuits." John nodded and thanked her, spinning around and waving to Sherlock to follow him up the steps. He was sure the detective had heard the entire conversation and already knew full well where he was meant to go, but he wouldn't do it unless John prodded him.

"Goodness me, John," Sherlock sighed once they were out of earshot, jamming his hands into his pockets as he glanced at the man. "What would that Mary of yours think if she saw that? You couldn't keep your eyes off the woman's bosom, could you?" Sherlock tsked with a smirk as he followed John, looking around for the room that they were supposed to enter, though he'd make no move to point it out. This whole situation felt wrong to him, being here in the community center to find a meeting for a support group. It not only wasn't something he was interested in, it wasn't something he was comfortable with, a fact that became steadily more apparent as John and he made an approach on the room, and Sherlock's steps slowed to an uncertain pace. "..Do you still insist that I attempt this?" Sherlock asked.

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's snide comments about staring at the woman's breast. "I'm a man, it's what we do. Besides, if I were with Mary, I wouldn't have to be staring at strange women's breasts because I'd have hers." He chuckled at how lewd the comment sounded. Sherlock seemed hesitant to get close to the room, which John understood. After all, Sherlock didn't want to come in the first place. He didn't realize that Sherlock wasn't just hesitant out of stubbornness but also because he was so terribly uncomfortable with the idea, uncomfortable at being put on display like a zoo creature. "Yeah, I do," John told him, pausing outside of room 214. "It will help you, Sherlock. I really think it will." John could hear light chattering and some laughing from inside the room; at least the people sounded friendly enough. "Come on. If it gets too bad, we can always leave." That wasn't an option he was hoping for, but he wanted to give Sherlock as much control of the situation as he could to make him more motivated to try it.

The comment about Mary's chest and the chuckle that followed made Sherlock's nose scrunch in disgust, but he regained his focus and sighed, staring at the room. "So be it," he muttered with a roll of his eyes as he stepped up to the door and grabbed the knob, pulling it open and holding it for John. As soon as they stepped inside, the room went quiet and every eye was on them, but Sherlock remained as indifferent as possible as he looked about the room, inspecting it somewhat. It was fairly small, with a group of chairs lined up as though for an audience before a very boring, non-extravagant podium near the front of the room. A group of people were off to the side, many standing, a couple having pulled up foldable chairs. They had their cups of tea, some biscuits, but their eyes were looking at John and Sherlock with curious expressions. Sherlock said nothing, deciding to leave it to John since the man insisted on him being here.

John was surprised-and incredibly uncomfortable-when everyone in the room went silent. Had they never seen new members before? Everyone in the room had the telltale signs of addiction. Red eyes. Mussed up hair. Sickly slim bodies. Wounds around their lips and noses, on their arms. John realized that, to an extent, he must have looked like an addict as well. His eyes were tired; he had lost weight, his hair was messed up, and his clothes were wrinkled to Hell. He forced a smile onto his face. It was clearly fake; John was terrible at faking smiles, his one weakness as a doctor. "Hi," he said, then cleared his throat. "This, um...this is the...the narcotics group?" Awful. He hated asking because it made him feel like he was making accusations, which couldn't be further from the truth. Sherlock, of course, stood silently beside him, not offering any type of help at all.

The man who looked to be the leader of the group, no doubt the counselor to the group, stood up from his chair and walked over to John, offering his hand out in greeting as his eyes fell on Sherlock, who really looked entirely apathetic to being there. "Yeah, you're in the right place mate. I'm Michael." Once he shook John's hand, he held it out towards Sherlock, who looked down on it and him with a look that said you've-got-to-be-kidding-me. He looked away without offering a hand, examining the other members of the group once he had his fill of Michael. "You had a child, didn't you? Bet you were too high to notice when your wife left with your child, weren't you?" Sherlock scoffed and shook his head before looking at the man with disapproval. He had caught sight of the exhaustion under the man's eyes, recognizing it as someone who had grown used to disturbed late nights, the way a parent grows accustomed to a child's screaming in the late hours. His ring finger, left hand, barely visible tan line, but the ring in question was worn around his neck instead. Evidently married as well, though perhaps a failed marriage. It'd been over for quite a while, but he was still not used to not wearing the ring on his finger. How sentimental. "Now you know you've no chance of getting them back because.. What was it?" he stared into Michael's eyes. "What did you do that was so foul you can't even bring yourself to contact them again? Doesn't matter. Now you run a support group, think it rights the wrong you did, correct? How much do you doubt yourself?" Michael made a face before turning to John, opening his mouth to ask about Sherlock then closing it again, not knowing what to say. He was entirely stunned.

John's face fell to the floor as Sherlock began rattling off deductions at the speed of sound. By the time John had lifted his jaw and found the ability to form words once again, Sherlock had already embarrassed the poor man standing before them to the point where he looked like he could hit the detective. "I'm-I'm sorry," John stammered, putting his hand on Sherlock's arm, gripping it. "He's just-he, um, he's nervous, see. He does this...thing of his, when he's nervous. Sorry, he doesn't mean anything by it." John held up his free hand in a nervous wave. "John, hi. This is Sherlock." The whole room had gone silent, all eyes staring at John rather than Sherlock, which he found to be completely unfair. He was always left cleaning up Sherlock's messes, whether it was with people or with their flat. _The_ flat, John! _The_ flat! You don't live there anymore! After a few more seconds of John and Michael staring at one another, neither sure of what more to say, the counselor turned and returned to his chair. John turned and gripped Sherlock's arm tighter. "Stop it," he spat. "Sherlock, don't do this to me. For God's sake_, please_ don't make me apologize for you all night. Just keep your bloody mouth shut."

Sherlock completely ignored John, smirking slightly to himself as he looked at the others and began to sort out which would be his next victim. It was a simple and very effective process, making deductions about people's lives to the point of embarrassment. It was simple, elegant, and fun. "Well John, I'm not asking you to apologize for me," Sherlock said as he singled out a man who was dressed in a rather punkish garb, his hair shaved into a strange, stylized mohawk with numerous piercings dotting his face. His tattoos were in abundance and the whole of the apparel made Sherlock laugh. "I bet it was your daddy who didn't pay you enough attention, hm? It seems most likely. Striving so hard to be the center of attention with the way you dress and sit. Is that why you took the drugs?" His eyes shifted to a girl sitting near the edge of the group. "Not as simple as you, though. Someone raped you, I can tell by the shifty way you look at the men closer to your age around you and the way you sit as though you have something to protect. You started using to cope, but it never went away, did it?" Sherlock shook his head and laughed slightly, eyes shifting to John for a brief moment. It'd been a while since he had a chance to just let his deductions fly, not caring who it hurt.

John's hands both clenched into fists and his heart began beating fast, breathing quickened, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed—in short, he was getting angry. More than angry. Furious. Enraged. Nothing seemed sufficient to describe how he was feeling. His hand wrapped tighter around the other man's arm and John was ashamed to find that he _wanted_ to hurt Sherlock. He wanted to use pain as not only a way of expressing his displeasure, but also as a way of punishing him. When it happened before it was normally purely out of anger, a response that he couldn't control, but this—this was purely because he wanted revenge. He wanted revenge on Sherlock humiliating him, he wanted revenge on Sherlock for coming to the class knowing full well he would make it unbearable. "Would you…excuse us?" John asked through gritted teeth, pulling Sherlock's arm and dragging him out of the room. He slammed the door behind them and pulled Sherlock down until he was eye-level. "Why are you doing this?" he hissed, making a conscious effort to control the volume of his voice. There were other classes going on and the last thing he wanted was to be arrested for a 'domestic disturbance'. "Why do you have to be like this? What have those people _ever_ done to you? What have _I_ ever done to you to make you such a fucking bastard? Huh? You have no right, Sherlock, no _fucking_ right to treat anybody this way, particularly me."

Sherlock allowed himself to be dragged out of the room by John's harsh grip, no doubt something that would give mild bruises later. Once he was out of the door, he was smirking, even as he was dragged down to John's eye level, meeting the man's fearsome glare head on. "I'm not doing anything to you," Sherlock pointed out with a shrug of his shoulders as he pulled back from John and removed himself with some struggle from the man's hold. Yes, he may have been purposely attempting to exacerbate the his situation, but only for the sake of getting out of that damnable meeting. "I wasn't doing anything to anyone. Merely pointing out who they are and trying to learn more about them. I was being social, John." It was taking quite a bit of effort to keep a sharp chuckle from escaping his throat, but he managed, knowing laughing would only anger the man further.

"Do you want to know something?" John asked suddenly, rather bluntly. He heard Sherlock's words and hated them, hated each one more than the last. The man was angering him intentionally. It was clear he had no remorse for what he had done, no remorse for making John angry and upset. John's hands were still in tight fists; his nails were cutting into his palms and that fueled his anger further. "I wish," he began, pausing to lick his lips and give Sherlock a wry chuckle. "I wish that I could hate you. I truly do. But I don't. Know why?" John gripped Sherlock's jacket and pulled him closer so that he could whisper into his ear. "Because you are a pitiful man. You are so arrogant, yet _so_ desperate for recognition. That's why you liked me when we first met, because you impressed me and I made the mistake of letting you know that. You think you have nothing to live for? You're right." He squeezed tighter, using his other hand to move and rest on the doorknob to the classroom. "Now get the hell back in there."

That verification was a severe blow to Sherlock's psyche. Pitiable? "I am not a man to be pitied by a broken soldier who gets off on danger, who could barely stand to exist before he met me," Sherlock growled in a hateful voice as he peeled John's hand from the front of his jacket. John just agreed he had nothing to live for, just verified for a fact that Sherlock's existence was then fairly moot and so the detective took a step back from John and the room, fixing himself and adjusting his jacket as he maintained his gaze on John. As he had backed away, he had managed to take John's wallet, which he proceeded to open. He ignored the picture of Mary and took John's money, then tossing his wallet on the ground. John didn't matter now, he was just like everyone else to Sherlock, someone to live off of for a while and to ignore. Someone whose identity he could just toss to the ground without a second thought. "If I've got nothing to live for, there's no bother to try, is there?" he asked before sidestepping John and walking down the hallway to leave the community center, everything in him feeling tight and angry and frustrated. What was John doing here, then? It was so confusing. John said he was here for Sherlock's sake, but if Sherlock had nothing to live for then surely John is actually just here to soothe his guilty conscience while simultaneously swelling Sherlock's. Why hadn't he left when he was supposed to? Pity? Was that really it?

"What am I to you?" John called down the hallway, not bothering to go after Sherlock. "You told me that I was your only friend, ever. You promised me you'd do this for me. For your _friend._ Isn't that what you said?" He leaned against the wall and rubbed his eyes. He wasn't even watching Sherlock now; he could have been speaking to an empty hallway for all he knew. "Mycroft said you were miserable before you met me. In so many words, he said that I was your reason for staying off drugs. He said you didn't see a point in it all. Then I came, and that changed. You were off the drugs, you were still an arse but you weren't as _much_ of an arse. Then I left, and you got on the drugs again. You don't see a point in living. What are you trying to tell me here, Sherlock? That _I'm_ your reason for living? That you don't feel you should get clean because, as soon as I'm gone, you'll start up again? It's not just about me looking over your shoulder to make sure you're shooting up, is it? You could sneak it around me if I lived with you. You need me to stick around because, well...you need me. I know, I know, you don't need anybody. Fine. Because you _want_ me." Perhaps his attempted usage of Holmesian logic would impress Sherlock. Perhaps the notion would make him scoff and leave and John would never see him again. Many a thing could happen. John saw his wallet resting on the ground and shook his head, brow furrowing. "Can you at least give me a tenner for the cab? I have problems with my legs from time to time." Sherlock had called him a _broken_ soldier. That was rich, coming from a man that was obviously a _broken_ detective.

Sherlock paused in the hallway at the question, listening to the words John had to say, the deductions he made. Yes, in many ways he needed John and in many more, he wanted him. But the fact of the matter was that John was happier somewhere away from Sherlock, somewhere he didn't have to see or deal with him, didn't have to run his errands, clean his messes, fix what he broke. And it bothered him how much John's happiness took priority over his own. As he pulled a ten out of his pocket and dropped it on the ground of the hallway, he wondered when it was that John's happiness became so important to him. Normally, Sherlock would become reliant, yes, but still very selfish in behavior. But here he was, wanting John to leave after trying so hard to get him to stay because that was _what was best for John._ Once he put the rest of the money away in his pocket, Sherlock pulled out his pack of cigarettes and stuck one between his teeth, lighting it up as he continued down the hallway and didn't verbally answer a single question John asked, didn't acknowledge any of his reasoning despite knowing it was true.

That was it. Sherlock was gone. He hadn't been willing to try, after all. Scratch that, he had been willing to try, because he was fully aware that he was going to make an ass of himself and ensure that John never tried something as foolish as getting him to come to therapy ever again. John sunk to the floor and pulled his mobile out of his pocket, calling the only person who made sense to him, the only person _in his entire life_ who put John's needs before their own. Sherlock didn't care about him after all, did he? John had tried to convince himself that he had, but it didn't add up. Saving him after being taken hostage by General Shan-Sherlock hadn't really cared, he'd just wanted to solve the case. Ripping the bombs off his body at the pool, what had that been? Him asking John if he was all right? Just normal pleasantries. Telling him at Baskerville that he only had one friend. Hugging him after his first hallucination, putting his arm around John's body after his break down on the street. He _was_ a broken soldier. A depressed one at that. Sherlock had pulled him out of it and now, seeing him, interacting with him, was sinking him further back. Mary could help him, he hoped. She had in the past. He dialed her number, ignoring the fact that his hand was shaking, and held the phone up to her ear. After a few rings, it went to voicemail. _Dammit_. "Hey, Mary," John said in the most controlled voice he could manage. "It's John...listen, this...this thing I'm doing here...it's not working. He won't listen to me, and I don't know what to do to help him, and sometimes I don't even know if I _want_ to help him. Just...call me when you get this, okay?" Immediately after he finished speaking the voicemail clicked off. With a sigh, John brought his knees up to his chest, crossed his arms, and lowered his head onto them.


	9. Chapter 9

**So sorry that this update was forever in coming. Backarapper and I haven't been able to roleplay as much so I didn't want to update when I would only have a few more chapters to go. But hopefully we can get together more and be able to keep the writing going, so here's another chapter, and the next will be up soon!**

As soon as Sherlock escaped the community center (at a fast paced walk, so he was clearly in a rush to do so) he immediately hailed a cab for which he paid for with John's money. Sherlock asked for Baker Street, having nowhere else he could disappear to and before long, he was outside of the flat, hurrying inside and shutting the door behind him. Once he was in, that was it, the world outside ceased to exist. Sherlock shut the windows, locked the doors, drew the curtains and curled up under the blanket of his bed, not even bothering to remove the coat he had on. He took his cigarette with him, the tobacco dangerously close to alighting the blanket he was under, but it could go up in flames for all he cared. Someone with a vengeance could burst through that door and Sherlock wouldn't put up a fight unless it was John. Then he'd run like hounds of hell were on his tail. Once his cigarette finished, he stubbed it out on the bed, watching as it burned a small hole through the cloth, but was smothered. After five minutes of inhaling burnt fumes, he slipped out of the bed and went to sit down beside the hole John made to jam the butt into it. 'Text me', the note there mocked. As if Sherlock could. He grabbed the note and scrunched it up, tossing it aside with ease and anger before resuming his process of filling the hole, patching it up with used cigarettes. He sat across from it and stared, biting back the urge to cry, an urge he couldn't remember having in a very long time.

As soon as Sherlock escaped the community center (at a fast paced walk, so he was clearly in a rush to do so) he immediately hailed a cab for which he paid for with John's money. Sherlock asked for Baker Street, having nowhere else he could disappear to and before long, he was outside of the flat, hurrying inside and shutting the door behind him. Once he was in, that was it, the world outside ceased to exist. Sherlock shut the windows, locked the doors, drew the curtains and curled up under the blanket of his bed, not even bothering to remove the coat he had on. He took his cigarette with him, the tobacco dangerously close to alighting the blanket he was under, but it could go up in flames for all he cared. Someone with a vengeance could burst through that door and Sherlock wouldn't put up a fight unless it was John. Then he'd run like hounds of hell were on his tail. Once his cigarette finished, he stubbed it out on the bed, watching as it burned a small hole through the cloth, but was smothered. After five minutes of inhaling burnt fumes, he slipped out of the bed and went to sit down beside the hole John made to jam the butt into it. 'Text me', the note there mocked. As if Sherlock could. He grabbed the note and scrunched it up, tossing it aside with ease and anger before resuming his process of filling the hole, patching it up with used cigarettes. He sat across from it and stared, biting back the urge to cry, an urge he couldn't remember having in a very long time.

John wasn't sure how long he sat there, in the hallway. People walked beside him, up and down the hallway, and some of them even knelt down and asked if he was okay. He assured them that he was. Michael was one of those people. "I'm fine, thank you," John had told him. It took a bit of persuasion, but Michael eventually left. The punk guy and the girl who had, apparently, been raped glared at John as they left, muttering to each other about 'those bastards'. After some time John fell asleep; when he opened his eyes and looked out the windows high up on the walls, the sky had darkened. Baker Street. He had to go to Baker Street. He didn't want to, but he certainly wasn't going to fork out another eight pounds just because Sherlock was an asshole and they'd gotten into yet another fight. He-foolishly-hadn't picked up the tenner that Sherlock had carelessly tossed on the ground. The nearest ATM as at least two miles away, but Baker Street was three; he may as well walk home. It was a terrible idea, one of his worst. It wasn't long before his leg was screaming in pain. As much as he wanted to convince himself that it was just because of the extended walk, he knew that wasn't true. He stopped in a drug store and purchased a cheap cane, gray and plastic, just like his old one. It certainly helped him, walking with the cane, even though he knew the pain wasn't real. How humiliating. Spending forty pounds on something he didn't even need. John finally arrived at the flat, thankful that the door was still unlocked. He went upstairs, taking each one slowly, letting his cane help to lift him up. He wanted tea, but he didn't want to /make/ tea. He settled on the sofa. He would have checked Sherlock's room to see if he was there (if not, John was going to sleep in his bed, much better than sleeping on the burned, yellowed covers of his own) but the slim silhouette told him to do otherwise. John lowered himself onto the couch with a sigh, propping his back up against the edge and draping his arm over his eyes as he let the cane drop to the ground.

When John had entered the flat, Sherlock had retired back to his room, not wanting to have a discussion with the man. But he heard something different in his gait, heard the soft clop of a cane against the ground. 'Oh,' Sherlock thought with a sigh as he stood from the bed and moved to the doorway, watching John fall onto the couch. 'How hypocritical.' He moved about his room and retrieved a few objects to facilitate his habit before moving in a nearly ephemeral manner out the door, walking slowly out into the sitting room. "How different is it?" he asked as he looked at the cane. "It might just be in your head, John, it might not be real pain, but that doesn't stop you from feeling it, does it? It doesn't stop you from needing support, from relying on something. I really don't think it's all that different at all." Sherlock's hand, in his pocket, traced the objects he held there, his own support, of sorts. "When it hurts, you need something to take the weight off the pain. You have your crutch, I have mine." It was more honest about how he felt than Sherlock wanted to admit, but regardless, he felt the need to make a point. But when didn't he? "You should go home, John. It's better for you if you do." Sherlock wanted to be far away from John, as far away as away gets. He knew he had enough drugs to last him a while, and with a bit of simple pickpocketing, he could find enough for a bus fare to Leeds, maybe. Or better yet, Aberdeen. Somewhere not London, somewhere far enough that no one would look there. And when he was gone, John would go home, Mrs. Hudson would rent to someone else, Lestrade would worry about something else. It was the best and easiest solution. He didn't have to quit, he didn't have to be near John, he didn't have to be around anyone. With purposeful steps, Sherlock walked to the door and pulled it open, glancing once more at the hole he never finished filling before stepping outside.

John wrote Sherlock a text, too tired to scream at him through the closed door. 'Will you come visit? JW'.

That was enough; he didn't need to say anymore. He knew Sherlock's response-if he even got one-would be an instant 'No'. He was completely out of ideas, out of motivation. Sherlock didn't care about his leg. He didn't care that John was limping, that he was using a cane. Instead he wanted to analyze it, to tell John 'Ha! Look at you! You're not invincible, either!' Sherlock left and John didn't stop him. Where would he go? Get a cab somewhere, wind up on the streets? He'd tried. He'd tried and tried again, and nothing had worked. Telling Sherlock he was sorry hadn't helped. Punching him, of course, hadn't helped. Taking him-/trying/ to take him-to a class hadn't helped. Talking with him hadn't helped. The man was as stubborn as a mule; he wouldn't talk, he wouldn't reveal his feelings. One more thing he had to tell Sherlock. One more thing, and then he was going to go to sleep.  
And just so you know, the cane wasn't what took the weight off the pain. The cane wasn't my crutch. You were. JW

Sherlock had ducked into an alleyway when he left Baker Street some ten minutes away, content to sleep there for the night, not caring really where he was, or the cold weather, or about anything really. He read the text John sent him and ignored it, snuggling up to curl against the wall of the alleyway. Visit? Of course he'd never visit. No, he couldn't put himself through that. Nor John. A few minutes later, however, his phone resonated again in his palm, vibrating insistently to alert the detective to a new text. With a sigh, he opened it up and looked at the blaring screen, feeling his heart jump slightly in his chest as he saw the message. Sherlock was his crutch? Sherlock? John had the gall to say that after leaving, walking fine on his own, dealing with the pain on his own, not using Sherlock as a crutch at all? It made him angry, furious that he would dare to say so. Sherlock wasn't his crutch, but that didn't stop John from being his.

You asked earlier what you are to me, did you not? SH

I would think that answer is obvious now. I will not visit, John. Don't expect me. SH

Yes, I did ask you what I am to you. You didn't answer. Feel free to do so now. JW

John was wide awake now simply because Sherlock had written him back. He hadn't expected him to, especially in response to both text messages. He leaned up, letting his feet rest on the floor, staring at his phone intently. He couldn't take the waiting so he stood, cane in hand, and went into the kitchen to make himself tea. The movement was extremely painful but he fought through it, he fought through it as he always had. Hell, when he was in Afghanistan, he would-no. John stopped himself, taking in a deep breath and instead focusing on making tea, making it his first priority. No, he wasn't going to think about the army. He wasn't going to think about the things he had done. He wasn't going to frenzy himself into having another flashback, particular since he was alone right now. It was almost nine o'clock; why hadn't Mary called him? He knew she was home. Assumed as much, anyway. He let the kettle boil and waited for Sherlock to text him back, praying that the man would.

You were my crutch. SH

Sherlock stared down at the text message for a good long time before he sent it, finding it easier to admit to such sentimental things when it was not in person. He put his phone on the ground, the case crunching slightly as it touch to gravel and he stared down at the white screen, curling in on himself, keeping a bit warm as he tried to think of what else to say. It wasn't easy, talking to John like this.

Then you left, and I couldn't stand properly so I found another support just to have you show up again. Why? So you can pull out from under me when I feel I confident again? SH

Just leave, John. SH

John's mouth dropped open when he read the text. That explained it all. Everything. He was pushing John away, being as big of an ass as possible, so that he wouldn't get hurt again when John returned to the Isle of Man.

Where are you? JW

John didn't want to talk about this...stuff...over text. Sherlock probably preferred it, but John wasn't willing to. Plus it was fucking freezing out there and Sherlock had no place to go. He assumed the man was sitting out there in the bitter cold just so that he wouldn't have to be with John; he wouldn't put it past the man for a second.

It's late. Why don't you stay here tonight and then you can leave or I can leave or...we'll figure something out in the morning. It's cold and dark out there and you've got nowhere to go. If you still want to leave in the morning, I'll give you some money so you can get set up somewhere. JW

Sherlock glared down at the phone with a clenched jaw, having placed it back on the ground when he finished his texts. No. He wasn't going to expose himself to John's presence, he wasn't going to go back home to Baker Street. Not now, not for as long as he could help it.

No. SH

That was all he sent in reply before grasping the phone in a firm hand and throwing it against the opposite wall in the alleyway, hearing the thick crack as it ricocheted against the wall and the ground before lying flat and abandoned. No matter how many times it went off, Sherlock was determined not to answer as he curled up against the wall, eyebrows knitted together in anger. He continued to stare at the device, feeling to icy to really notice the cold. He wasn't tired either. It was tempting to find some late night marks and get the fee for a motel room, but John, should he decide to look, would have an easier time finding him in motels than in alleyways.

Fuck it. He had tried. He had tried everything. He'd tried to be a doctor, tried to be a commander, tried to be a friend, tried to be a mediator, tried to be a casual acquaintance, and Sherlock hadn't responded to any method. He had no idea of what else to do. It was late, yes, but after checking his laptop John found that there was one more flight leaving for the Isle of Man in an hour, the last one. If he didn't go now, he wouldn't go at all. John stood and quickly finished his tea, then put his laptop and various chargers into his bag. He made sure that the antiemetics were out where Sherlock could find them, assuming the man even returned to the flat. He took a few aspirin-more than he should have, honestly-before leaving the flat. Using the cane was second nature to him, completely natural. Gray hair, exhausted eyes, a wrinkled face, a hunch in his back, and now the cane. He really did seem older than he was. He would walk to an ATM and then get money for a cab, take a cab, get to the airport with barely enough time to spare.


End file.
